


taking off our masks (and keeping our mouths shut)

by salamoonder



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bad Parenting, Child Abuse, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, First Time, Flowers, Frank O' Hara, Gen, M/M, Multi, Nonbinary Mollymauk Tealeaf, Other, Poetry, Queer Families, Queer Mentor, Queerplatonic Relationships, Self-Discovery, Self-Harm, Sex, Tarot, Trans Caleb Widogast, Trans Nott (Critical Role), Transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:41:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23306965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamoonder/pseuds/salamoonder
Summary: High school, hell, what's the difference? Not much, as far as Beau is concerned. She's suffered through two years of it, and she isn't eager for more.Yasha’s spent most of her life knowing exactly what she wants, and it’s Mollymauk Tealeaf at her side. It's terrifying when that starts to change.Molly is losing his mind. He's been stuck here too long, and yet he's afraid to leave. Lately, he's afraid of everything: fucking up with the new kid, failing to protect his friends, or spilling secrets. It's eating him up inside, and he can't even tell Yasha.Caleb wants to love it here, but every part of him is holding back. He's spent too much time on love already, and it is never kind.Nott hates the person she's becoming. She hates sharing her home, hates feeling crowded in and alone all at once.Fjord is utterly lost--people keep looking at him, clapping him on the shoulder, and telling him he's a man now--what the hell does that even mean? And why does that girl with the blue hair keep giggling and waving at him?Jester has been putting on a brave face ever since she can remember. Be strong, darling--that's what her mama always tells her--and she's never let her guard down yet.
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett/Yasha, Dairon & Beauregard Lionett, Fjord & Mollymauk Tealeaf, Fjord/Jester Lavorre, Jester Lavorre & Beauregard Lionett, Jester Lavorre & Nott, Mollymauk Tealeaf & Yasha, Mollymauk Tealeaf/Caleb Widogast, Nott & Caleb Widogast
Comments: 41
Kudos: 166





	1. pierced by a glance

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my quarantine fic! I knew I needed a project and I needed a big one and my current hyperfixation is CR, sooooo here we go! It's choose not to warn because quite frankly I'm not sure where this is going to go, but I promise I will 100% tag triggers as they come up and as I know they're going to be concluded and as always will warn for each individual chapter.
> 
> I can already feel myself digging deep into my repressed high school year so this is gonna be a ride. Please enjoy my Everyone is Queer, an Absolute Dumbass, Probably in Love With Each Other, and Trying to Handle Growing Pains, Abuse, and Self Discovery high school au :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly makes a new friend, maybe...and Caleb enjoys his newfound freedom.

Mollymauk doesn’t make a habit out of flirting from behind the counter, but there’s just something about this kid.

Firstly, Molly’s never seen him before. Wildemount is a small fucking town and Molly is fairly certain he’s at least glanced at every person who pings on his queer radar in the surrounding ten square miles. Secondly he looks like he’s hiding from something, or someone, glancing over his shoulder every five seconds and picking the table as far as possible from the windows and doors at the front of the shop. Thirdly, he is _reall_ _y_ freaking cute. Like, illegally so.

“Welcome to Helios, what can I get for you?” he asks. It’s the standard greeting, but he accentuates it with an overly bright smile--and just the slightest wink. The guy doesn’t seem to notice.

“I’m, ah...still thinking,”

There’s a slight accent there. Molly can’t quite identify it. He shrugs it off and keeps smiling. “Sure, just let me know when you’re ready.”

The kid gives a slight nod and wanders tentatively closer to the menu after setting his backpack down. Molly goes back to wiping down the counter, trying not-so-subtly to get a better look at the kid. His hair is overlong and a dull reddish bronze, not as though he’s wearing it long on purpose, but like it simply hasn’t been cut in a while. There are freckles just barely dusting the tip of his nose and trailing very faintly down his neck until they disappear into the moss green scarf tucked into his coat. It’s not particularly cold enough for a coat, in Molly’s opinion, but the effect of the scarf combined with the intensity of his eyes is oddly striking. As Molly looks closer, he gets the sense that this jacket is certainly a favorite. It’s a little grungy, and there are no small number of holes dotting it. Molly tucks the information away in the back of his mind and completes his ineffectual polishing of the bar.

“See anything you like?” he asks, purposely biting back the flirtier follow up he could’ve added.

The guy blinks, seeming to notice molly fully for the first time, and startles himself out of a daze. “Well...now that you mention it, a...a recommendation might be nice.”

“Right, of course.” Molly glances up at their menu. some of the seasonal fall stuff is just coming out, but...he bites his lip. Too commercial.

“Do you like tea?” he asks.

“ _Ja_. I mean--yes, yes I like tea.”

Molly pulls a cup and swirls around to grab an earl gray. “Swiss fog. On the house.”

“Oh, you don’t have to--”

Molly waves his hand to dispel any argument and gives a tiny shrug as he turns back around to add the chocolate. “Consider it a welcome present, I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before...?”

The guy shrugs back. “Caleb.”

“Mollymauk Tealeaf, at your service.” Molly offers an exaggerated bow. Caleb lets out a tiny snort in spite of himself. “Your drink is almost done.”

“ _Danke_ ,” says Caleb, and then startles, as though he’s revealed himself. Molly doesn’t react, though he’s dying to ask if Caleb is an exchange student. This town is entirely too dull not to know anyone who’s been outside of it in the past ten years.

Instead, he says, “of course,” slides a sleeve onto Caleb’s cup, and writes his name on it in ridiculously loopy cursive. He fits the lid on and places it in Caleb’s hands. Caleb avoids his eyes but gives him a tiny smile, takes the drink, and retreats to the corner where he’s already placed his bag.

Molly tries to ignore him, but it’s quite a slow afternoon, and he’s the only one in the shop. Only a few other people come in to order drinks or pastries, and none of them linger. Still, he holds off until the last twenty minutes of his shift, because he knows Yasha’s coming in to pick him up, and if he makes a complete fool of himself she’ll be there to bail him out. Caleb’s just been lingering in the corner the whole time, scribbling in a notepad and hunched in on himself like he’s freezing, though the temperature in the shop isn’t unpleasant. Molly makes another swiss fog (he seemed to like the first one, as it’s sitting empty on the table beside him) and writes his number on the sleeve. He waits till he sees Yasha pull up, till Bo throws on an apron and nudges him away from where he’s double and triple checking their stock of gift bags.

“Don’t pretend like you’re busy, Molly, go ahead home,” Bo tells him good-naturedly. Molly swipes the drink from the counter, folds up his apron, and tosses it into the staff room.

“Don’t work too hard,” Molly tells him as he grabs his bag.

Bo barks out a laugh as he leaves. “You know me. never work harder than I need to.”

Before Molly can talk himself out of it, he slides the swiss fog across the table to Caleb. “Here,” he says. “Thought you might like a refill.” He flashes a quick smile and walks out before he can see his reaction.

Yasha is waiting for him in her ancient corolla, impatiently fixing her eyeshadow in the rearview mirror. Molly slides into the passenger seat and takes a deep, shaky breath. “It looks fine, dear.”

“Afternoon to you too. you okay?”

“Fine,” says Molly, and leans over to give her a quick kiss on the forehead. she wrinkles her nose but allows it.

“You sure?”

He waves a hand at her in a “just drive” sort of motion, and she shrugs and puts the car back into gear.

The day is pleasant enough for them to roll the windows down and enjoy the last dregs of the summer, and Molly hangs his head out the window like a dog and just watches as the low gray buildings of downtown roll by, followed slowly by farmland and then by forest. The trees are still thick with leaves, but not a scrap of green is left. They’ve been driving for maybe ten minutes when Yasha clears her throat uncomfortably.

“You’re quiet,” she says.

Molly chuckles. “and you’re not?”

“I’m always quiet,” says Yasha, and her usual frown deepens.

“Fair enough.”

“You would tell me? If something was wrong?”

Molly sighs through his nose. “Of course. I just have a lot on my mind.”

♡ ♡ ♡

Caleb stares at the numbers on the lid of his tea.

(They’re not going away.)

He stares a little bit harder. They don’t look quite real. He turns a page in his notebook and begins to copy down the digits, then writes beside them, ‘barista-???’, as his brain is not doing a great job at the recalling details thing right now. He flips the page back and looks at the list he’s written, then slams the notebook shut.

It would be nice, he thinks, to have a real drink. He picks up the swiss fog and sips at it, then replaces it on the table. Anything that would make him feel something that is not this bland, low current of fear and misery. Not that Caleb’s ever had a real drink. or a real boyfriend. or a real--

He clamps down on that thought, labeling it unproductive, and gathers up his things. He’s recently nineteen, he’s an adult, and he’s only been out a couple hours, but--well. Caleb doesn’t like pushing limits. He likes flying under the radar. he likes quiet, and small places, and he likes little coffee shops like this where even the music playing in the background feels muted. he pulls up the hood of his jacket to walk home.

He runs directly into nott as he comes up the walk to the house, and the both let out a surprised yelp.

“Watch where you’re going! you--oh.” Nott blinks, recognizing him, and her tirade mellows to a low grumble. “I was wondering where you went.”

“Just out,” says Caleb with a shrug. His hands are shaking. He’s still holding the empty coffee cup, cradling it like it might hold a secret. Nott narrows her eyes at him.

“Well, come inside. It’s nearly dinnertime.”

Caleb follows meekly, his skin crawling with nerves. “Ah, Nott--were you looking for me?”

“Vaguely. Mostly I just got bored of sitting in the living room waiting for anything good to be on tv. Mom and Dad won’t be home for an hour or so.”

“Ah.” Caleb takes that in. “Alright.”

Nott doesn’t seem to hear him. She’s already barging her way into the kitchen.

“What are we making?” Caleb asks, eyeing her like she might pounce on him at any minute. She doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to him, though. She’s pulling bowls and utensils and condiments out and dumping them haphazardly on the counter in the practiced but careless manner of someone who knows exactly where everything is and also wants to get this over with.

Caleb has held off on forming an opinion on Nott. She seems to be doing the same with him, which is nerve wracking. He feels like a trespasser, an invader, a parasite, and he doesn’t know how to make himself less useless. (Everything about him is useless.)

Nott is standing in the middle of the kitchen, blinking at him curiously. “Caleb. Did you hear me?”

“ _N-nein_ , sorry.” Caleb feels his face heat.

“We’re making chicken salad sandwiches.”

“Ah.”

“Do you know how to do that?”

Caleb watches her face. Her tone is carefully flat, she seems to mean it genuinely and not in a ‘god you’re so useless’ kind of way. “Ah…no.”

“Alright. I’ll teach you.”

Caleb takes a deep breath. “ _Ja,_ okay.”

Nott hadn’t been there the first time Caleb met his foster parents. They’d mentioned her, of course, but at the time Caleb’s head was so full of other things that it just skimmed right by his more anxious thoughts. Even now just walking around the house is enough to send his mind into overdrive. There are too many secrets, too many traps, and Nott stares at him as though trying to figure him out and he doesn’t want that, doesn’t--

“Are--are you alright?”

Caleb allows himself a full body shudder before he can think better of it, and swallows hard. “Perfectly fine.”

Nott’s eyes go narrow but she shrugs, and then physically pulls him over to the sink. “Well, wash your hands. Cold season is coming.”

He does as he’s told, glad to have a task in front of him. Nott places a cutting board on the counter and then a container of chicken breasts. She hands him a knife, which he takes very gingerly, and then shoves a bag of grapes over to him as well. “Okay. Start chopping.”

Caleb blinks at her, not half perplexed. Nott blinks back at him for a long moment, and then sighs. She repositions his hand on the knife and he feels something in his grip shift--it’s not exactly more comfortable, but he feels more in control. She sets the chicken on the cutting board and guides his knife into it with even, sure movements.

“Like that. You’ll get the rhythm of it.”

Caleb just nods and continues to chop when she removes her hand. For a second Nott is watching him quite closely, and then appears to satisfy herself and turns to the rest of the kitchen. Caleb lets himself breathe. Nott’s hand is surer, steadier, but this is actually easier than he thought it’d be. And he doesn’t feel useless right now, which is a vast improvement on the other 99% of his life.

“Do you make dinner every night?” Caleb asks.

Nott looks up from the grapes she’s watching. “Not every night. Most, though.”

“It’s nice,” he says. “I mean, that’s nice, that you have a job. Or a...a. Not a job, a.”

Nott is watching him curiously.

Caleb closes his eyes, trying not to dig the hole deeper. “It’s nice to be a part of something,” he says finally.

“It’s just dinner, Caleb,” says Nott, but her tone is gentle.

“ _Ja, ja_. I know.”

♡ ♡ ♡

“Mollymauk, are you paying attention?”

Yasha’s voice is so soft, her tone so quiet and gentle, that Molly almost misses the meaning of the words. He reaches out to tuck her bangs back behind her ear, and she blows a strand impatiently back into the middle of her forehead.

“Molly?”

“Yes, I’m just--Yasha, what if we never actually do this?”

Yasha frowns and scoots back a little from where she was sprawled so he can see the full map.

It’s an absolute mess, cobbled together with packing tape and made of standard printer paper. Some of the squares are well colored, in others it’s clear that they had started to run out of ink. Some are on slightly thicker paper than the rest and nearly all of the squares are covered in highlighter and doodles and notes. It’s spread out across the disconcertingly clean carpet of Yasha’s room, weighted down with her paperweights. (Gifts from Molly, mostly. Three of the four contain pressed flowers; the fourth is a polished block of amber entrapping a smattering of tiny ants.) Not that it needs them; they look at the map so often that although they put it away tightly furled, it lays perfectly flat when they take it out again.

Molly traces a lazy finger down one of the highways. It’s marked in turquoise sharpie. Yasha isn’t saying anything, just waiting, and it takes a bit of effort for him to pull his mind back, reign his thoughts in, and actually communicate to her.

“I mean,” he says slowly, “I...I think I’m actually going to miss this place.”

Yasha raises an eyebrow but maintains her silence. Molly lets out a frustrated grunt. “Everyone here has been here forever, and we never get anyone new and if we do they don’t stay for long, and everyone has either never left or like. Went out and saw the world and for some reason came back to this shithole, and I don’t--”

Yasha’s still silent, but she pushes the map carefully aside and pulls Molly backwards into her lap with the steady hands of someone who is well aware that she’s quite strong, but also spends a lot of time caring for flowers. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see her perplexed concern.

“Breathe for like five seconds for me, okay?” she says, and he does. “Why--forgive me for being ignorant, but why is that a bad thing?”

Molly looks up at her, wishing for a moment that he could take the doubt and fear and anxiety swirling around his head and just push it out into her mind, that she could see it by just looking into his eyes, but her gaze remains the same: soft and focused. He looks away.

“I...I don’t know, Yasha. Can we talk about something else? How’s your project coming?”

Yasha’s mouth twists, and he watches her gray eye, the left eye, narrow at him. Eventually the war in her mind seems to end and she nudges him up with bruised knuckles. It’s almost impossible for Yasha to resist talking about her poetry. She walks over to her desk and rummages around in the drawers till she comes up with a few rumpled sheets of notebook paper and hands them to Molly.

“Here,” she says. “They’re not good, they’re not done yet, but-”

Molly gives her an even, level glare, and she quiets before he can give her a whole speech on the dangers of self deprecation. She folds her hands in her lap and sits back on her heels as he reads, watching him anxiously.

Yasha’s poetry is every bit her own; it starts tentatively, without much structure or punctuation, then finds its stride as the words continue to march down the pages, bolder, messier, louder. Molly moves his lips silently as he reads over, then goes back to the top to start again, letting a slow smile spread across his face. The rhythm isn’t quite right in his head, but even as first drafts there’s something raw and powerful about her poems. He takes the three sheets of paper, rearranges them in their original order, and hands them back to her.

“They’re beautiful,” he tells her. “I think you still need to workshop a little, but it’s a gorgeous starting point.”

Yasha fully blushes, refusing to meet his eyes. She takes the papers back and skims over them and then quickly looks away, like she doesn’t want to think about Molly reading them.

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, my dear.” Molly goes up on his knees and takes Yasha by the shoulders so he can give her a proper forehead kiss, and she leans up to press their noses together.

“I was worried they were shit.”

He laughs. “Absolutely not. Good stuff. I promise.”

She sighs and slumps across his shoulder like she’s too tired to live. “I would like it very much if we could go get some dinner, and then maybe rent a movie, and then maybe you will feel better about telling me what’s wrong tomorrow.”

Molly stiffens a little; it hadn’t been a question, but Yasha knows exactly how to make him feel guilty, intentionally or not. They tell each other everything. (Well. They’re supposed to.) Lately, though, Molly has felt so weighed down with secrets and shame that putting them on Yasha as well as himself seems an unfair burden to manage.

Yasha yanks a lock of his hair playfully before standing up and tugging him to his feet, and he tries to push it to the back of his mind. Yasha has always physically protected him from the world, standing between him and the dangers of living in a small town with bared teeth and bare fists. It’s only fair that he protects her as well.


	2. full of judgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beau and Jester catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all writing this thing is the only thing keeping me sane. I think it might be a lot longer than I originally envisioned so rip me I guess. Thank you to everyone who has commented and left kudos so far <3 yall fuel my creative drive
> 
> tws for the beginning of/implied bad parenting/child abuse (it will come back later). also for implied drug use.

For what feels like the millionth time this month, Beauregard finds herself backed against an alley wall. Nel’s not touching her, is barely even looking at her, but the dirty brick is pressing into the back of her neck all the same. Beau takes a deep breath and tries to still the trembling in her fingers.

“I’m safe, Nel. You know that.”

It’s odd how much the reassurance sounds like begging. Beau winces as Nel casts a discerning eye over her, and then turns away in favor of watching the sidewalk and shrugs. “Never hurts to make sure.”

Beau nods. “Of course. Do you, uh...do you need me today or can I just...I have, like, this summer homework that I have to finish, super lame but my dad will kill me if--”

Nel’s already waving a hand at her rambling and Beau shuts up immediately. “I don’t care what you do today. Just be on call tomorrow. You’re covering all of us, remember.”

How could she forget?

Instead of voicing that Beau just bobs her head again and ducks off down the alley, snatching the grubby backpack she’d taken with her off the ground. Her heart is in her throat and she resists the urge to look back over her shoulder. Her father is going to kill her if she misses curfew again and she’s not sure she can even muster up the energy to care, but thinking about the look on his face as the door slams too noisily behind her is enough to kick her careful jog into a run. It’s only 8:45. She has time. She totally has time.

Nel is...well, she’s sort of a bitch. Beau shouldn’t call her that, even in her head, but she doesn’t like to waste words and the bitter thought just slips out. The only reason Beau hangs out with her is because she’s Tori’s best friend, and Beau will do anything to stay friends with Tori. It was easier when they were littler, when the only requirements for being friends were walking up to someone and saying “let’s be friends!”, but teenagehood came with its...compromises.

Beau is okay with that. So okay with it. Friends are worth a little extra effort, and she’s fairly certain that the only reason Tori even hangs out with Nel to begin with is that they’re both on the volleyball team and you sort of _have_ to be friends with your teammates, right? Plus Tori has hinted pretty heavily that Nel is the only girl in this backwater town with consistent and trustowrthy plugs...insofar as those things are consistent and trustworthy. Beau has even caught Tori winking at her over Nel’s head a few times, or even rolling her eyes, when Nel goes on too long.

So, yeah, Nel is a necessary evil. But it’s fine; it’s good. Beau does shit for her friends, like put up with Nel, and they do shit for her. That’s how it works.

At the moment, however, she could do without the stitch in her chest. Beau is in pretty good shape, but she’s been sprinting the whole way home and according to her phone, she has less than five minutes before nine.

Something is pinging in the back of her head, something she’s forgotten. It’s getting shoved to the back of her mind by the sound of her dad’s newspaper hitting the kitchen counter followed by his loud, theatrical sigh, but--there’s something. Something. Fuck. What is she forgetting?

She’s trying to remember when her feet finally hit her own lawn, and she takes about two seconds to draw a couple of deep, ragged breaths, smooth her hair back into its ponytail, and try to pretend that she hasn’t been running. She checks her phone. 8:58. Jesus.

She pushes open the door as slowly as she dares, hoping to be let off with a sideways glare and a mumbled “cutting it close”...but instead she’s nearly knocked off her feet by the whirlwind of a girl who has clearly been bouncing up and down in the foyer, waiting for her.

“Jester!” Beau yelps, dropping her backpack as Jes fully picks her up and spins her in a tight circle before putting her down and letting out a delighted squeal. Ah. That’s what she’s forgotten.

“Beaaaaauuu! I missed you so much you do not even _know_ , I was getting worried t hat you maybe forgot I was coming back tonight but then I thought, I am like, wayyyy too important to forget about and plus I got you _presents_ , and your dad said you were definitely definitely going to be home by nine and so I did get a little worried when you were not here at like 8:45, but now you are here, so that is good!”

Jester had released her to bounce a little on the balls of her feet while delivering this little speech, but as she finishes she tackles Beau into another hug, nuzzling against her neck. “I am so so glad you are here, I missed you so much-!”

“I missed you too, Jessie,” Beau manages when Jester pauses for air. “Geez. I’m sorry. I wasn’t really keeping an eye on the time.” She sneaks a furtive look into the kitchen at that, and Jester definitely picks up on it.

“Oh, your dad went to get us some pizza. Wasn’t that nice of him?”

“Extremely,” says Beau, somewhat dumbfounded, and she allows herself to breathe. She would’ve noticed his car was gone, if she had taken more than five seconds to think before she came into the house. “Where’s my mom?”

Jester shrugs. “In the den, probably. Your dad says she is very tired and needs her rest.”

Beau resists the urge to roll her eyes. Her mother is always “tired and needs her rest”. You would think she was terminally ill, not pregnant. At least it means she’ll stay out of their hair. Instead, she runs her hand over her whole face and puts on a tired smile for Jester. “Alright then. Let’s go upstairs so I can sit down, I’m exhausted.”

♡ ♡ ♡

Jester can’t help it. She spends fully the first thirty minutes of their sleepover tackle hugging Beau, backing off and trying to contain herself, and then knocking her to the ground again. Beau yelps like she’s been punched every single time, which causes both of them to explode into giggles. It feels like centuries, not weeks, that they’ve been apart, and Jester is determined to make up for every second of it.

“I wish you could’ve come, Beau,” she sighs. “The beach is sooo beautiful and I can’t believe you’ve never even seen the ocean! Oh my goodness! Would you like to see pictures?”

Beau smirks a little. “I’ve seen pictures of the ocean before, Jes.”

Jester pouts. “But these have me in them.”

“Well, alright then. I’m convinced.” Beau flops down on her futon and motions at Jester to join her. Jester, of course, is absolutely unable to resist the opportunity to slam on top of her. She feels the breath leave Beau’s chest in a soft huff of laughter. They lie there in silence for a minute as Jester unlocks her phone and pulls up the album, and she feels soft relief wash over her. She scrolls slowly through all the landscape pictures she’s taken--the sun rising over the ocean, the city at night as they’d driven in, the wind of the road down a long hill in the driving rain--she’s not really paying attention to them, though, she’s looking at Beau.

It’s always nice to leave town for a while and Jester has looked forward to her short little trips with her father more than any holiday since she was a little girl, but it’s an odd feeling, watching the color and light from her phone crawl over the stillness of Beau’s expression. Jester spends a minute or two trying to suss it out, gently pushing her phone into Beau’s hand for her to look properly, and then it hits her: has Beau ever even been out of the state?

It seems unlikely, although Jester’s never asked. Sometimes when she’s talking about her father or their trips, even if it’s just going out for ice cream or a walk in the park, something in Beau’s face twists and Jester abruptly changes the subject. She’s tried to invite her many times, but the answer is always the same: a tight “I can’t,” followed by a deliberate loss of eye contact. Jester’s never pushed her any further, and Beau’s never elaborated. But they’ve spent so many nights cozied up in Beau’s attic braiding their hair and throwing popcorn at the tv screen and whispering secrets that maybe it’s alright anyway. Maybe they’ve created something just as good as the little trips away Jes is used to.

“That’s cute,” says Beau with a little smirk, jolting Jester out of her thoughts. She looks up: Beau’s looking at the picture her father snapped of her falling off a surfboard. She’s not very good, but her dad lets her rent one every time she goes, so she inevitably ends up bruised to hell and considerably more sunburnt but happy when she comes home.

“I’m very cute, thank you very much,” Jester snips, and Beau punches her in the shoulder.

“Adorable,” she agrees.

Beau flips slowly on to the next picture and Jester clears her throat.

“So...how was life while I was gone? Did you do anything exciting?”

Beau half shrugs. “Oh, you know. Same old. Boring summer reading packets. I actually got so bored yesterday that I read a few chapters of Lord of the Flies and it’s not too bad, surprisingly.”

Before Jester can process the uncomfortable guilt that hits her with that statement, Beau hops up from the bed, tossing her back her phone. “ _And_...I got you a present.”

Jester sits up. “Oh, Beau, really? You didn’t have to get me anything, I mean, I just-”

Beau holds up a finger, effectively silencing Jester as she digs around on the floor beneath her desk. “You’re not gonna say that when you see what it is.”

“What is it?” Jester asks, resisting the urge to jump up and look over Beau’s shoulder.

She comes up grinning, a bottle of arctic fox in one hand. “Poseidon was the color you wanted, right?”

Jester full on squeals. “ _Yes_ , Beau, you remembered!”

“Course I did,” Beau says easily, and tosses her the bottle. “I still have some leftover bleach too, so we can do it right now if you want.”

Jester’s eyes widen. “We’re going to stain your whole bathroom blue! Your mom will kill you!”

Beau shrugs. “Mom’s not supposed to climb stairs for a while, apparently. Plus my bathroom could use some color.”

Jester hops off the bed and hugs Beau hard enough that she stumbles backwards a few steps.

“Thank you thank you thank you, Beau! I have something for you too!”

Beau takes her gently by the shoulders and pulls them a little apart so she can see Jester’s face. She looks a little embarrassed. “Alright, Jes. You’re, uh. You’re welcome.”

Jester just beams at her. It’s one of those things that has slipped out of her mother’s busy schedule--she wouldn’t let Jester do it before beach for fear that all the swimming would fade the color prematurely, and she was wary of Jester going to a salon by herself. And much as Jester loved her father, his chaotic schedule wasn’t very good for regular, utilitarian things like getting picked up for school or being taken to appointments. This makes the dull off white sink in Beau’s bathroom a virtual paradise.

It’s torture to sit still while Beau paints her hair with bleach, and the smell makes it near impossible to talk since Jester has closed her eyes and pull her t shirt tight over her nose, but Beau entertains her by balancing her phone against the mirror and showing Jester the various videos of stray cats stalking fat pigeons she’s recorded behind the 7-11. There’s a couple videos of a stray dog that Beau had attempted to track down with one of the girls they knew from school--a golden retriever, covered in mud, friendly, but very fast. The video ended with someone yelling to get off their property followed by a lot of giggling, a couple blurry shots of Beau’s sneakers, and then darkness.

“Did you catch it?” Jester asks, voice muffled by her shirt.

Beau shrugs. “I think it turns out the dog belonged to the guy who yelled at us anyway. Fuckin assholes need to put collars on their pets.”

♡ ♡ ♡

“Beau?”

“Yeah, Jes?”

“Have you ever been in love?”

Beau almost spits out her pizza. “I don’t _think_ so? Uh-no.”

“Oh.” Jester sounds...not quite disappointed? But definitely thoughtful.

Beau turns back to the tv screen and focuses very hard on Claire Danes. “I don’t know, I guess I never really thought about it.”

“I think I’m in love.”

“Uh...huh.”

“Do you remember Fjord? Fjord Stone from the swim team?”

Beau squints at the screen again. There’s some kind of poetry happening, but she’s not familiar enough with the play to work out what exactly they’re saying. What she can work out is that there is a fuckton of flirting. She takes a bite of crust while she deliberates.

“I...think so? Kinda tall, and, uhh…” Beau tries to think of literally anything else that distinguishes the guy she assumes Jester is thinking of. “Is he a freshman?”

“Well, he _was_ a freshman, but he’s going to be a sophomore this year.”

“Oh. Huh. You know him from swim team?”

“Welllll technically I don’t really know him, technically, I’ve just seen him at meets and stuff, you know.”

“And you’re in love with him?”

Jester shifts against Beau’s chest and Beau adjusts the old pillowcase they’re using to keep Jester’s hair from staining anything.

“I don’t _kn_ _ow_ , that’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh. Huh.” Beau mulls over this. “Uh, I guess...what makes you think you’re in love with him?”

Jester lets out a long suffering sigh. “Well he’s really handsome, and he’s super fast, and he always smiles at me when he comes over to concessions, and one time I couldn’t find my goggles like anywhere and I was literally in line for my heat and all the other girls were going crazy looking for a spare set and he just walked up and gave me his? Even though we were swimming against them and really if I had to swim without goggles that would be like a huge advantage for them technically because you know how good I am, but he was just really really nice anyway and it was so sweet, Beau, and he’s got that cute little scar over his eyebrow, and-”

“Okay,” Beau says before Jester can drag her any further down the rabbit hole. “So...he’s cute,”

“So cute,” Jester interrupts. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Uh, he’s cute, he’s...he’s kind to you, he’s...cute…”

“Yep.”

“Have you ever...talked to him?”

“I told him thank you when I gave his goggles back and our hands brushed together a little bit.”

“Did he say you’re welcome?”

“Of course he did! He’s not rude.”

“Alright. Okay. So, you’ve had a conversation. And he’s cute. And kind. Uh. Maybe you should try talking to him again?”

“Beau, I don’t want to be weird.”

Beau unglues her eyes from the screen to give Jester a completely dumbfounded stare. “How-how is that being weird? How is talking to him weird?”

“I don’t want it to be, like. Heyyyy here’s this girl from the swim team who you’ve seen like once and all of a sudden she’s talking to you and it’s so weird but you’re too nice to tell her that you don’t want to talk to her.”

“Jester...you talk to everyone.”

“I know, but this is different, this is...this is Fjord.”

“Well, maybe...maybe you’ll be in a class together, and you’ll get paired up for a group project? Or maybe you’ll get to pick group partners and you can be like hey, I’m a freshman, you’re a sophomore, maybe you can, you know, show me the ropes?”

Jester hums happily. “That actually sounds pretty great, Beau. You’re good at this.”

“Thanks.” Beau resits the urge to pet Jester’s hair like she usually would--technically it probably shouldn’t be touched for a while, even though the dye has rinsed out, and she doesn’t want to turn her hand blue.

There’s a vague feeling like nausea or discomfort rising in her chest that she can’t entirely identify. Beau lets out a low, uncomfortable noise, trying to suss it out, and Jester reaches her hand out and Beau takes it absently. The gesture is natural, easy, as built in as reaching up to put her hair in a ponytail or pulling a t shirt over her head. Everything is like that with Jes. It has been for as long as Beau can remember.

The inevitability of the school year looms up in Beau’s head, the loss of her summer freedom, confinement behind a desk for such an endless stretch of days, and she suddenly feels like crying. She just wants to be out of here so bad, out of this dusty unfinished attic, out of this stupid town, out from under her dad’s thumb.

Jester’s been sucked back into the movie, so Beau is having this sudden crisis by herself. It’s really weird and a little unsettling, to have Jes snuggled up against her, fingers laced together, and still have her totally unaware of the panic tightening in her chest. She squeezes Jester’s hand, and she looks up at her for a moment and just smiles. It’s that brilliant, soft Jessie smile that Beau has come to associate with pure contentment, and it’s what makes the tears spill over onto her cheeks. The smile darkens.

“What’s wrong, Beau? What’s up?”

Beau shakes her head hard, as though that will help. “Nothing,” she says, voice steady, and takes her hand away from Jester’s for a moment to rub her face with the back of her wrist. Jester darts up and kisses her chin, which makes Beau snort a little. She forces the bad feeling down, forces her trepidations down, thinks about this being her junior year--she’s so close, so close, she just has to keep pushing a little longer and then she’ll be out of here.

“Beau…”

“What.”

“I loooove you.”

Beau lets out the most unnecessary, bratty sigh before giving Jester the widest smile she can possibly manage. “Love you too, you dork.”


	3. pull the shadows around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caleb makes a new friend, and Molly makes a disturbing discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo everyone I am so sorry this has taken so long--my world is turning a _little_ upside down, for obvious reasons.
> 
> Some technical notes on this chapter: this story (starting now) is going to be dealing a bit more with suppressed memories, panic attacks, and child abuse than I thought it was, so please be aware of that and take care of yourself as needed. I will warn as it goes along. There's nothing too severe in this chapter, the worst being Molly dealing with the aftermath of a nightmare.
> 
> On a lighter note, Molly and Yasha are in a QPR in this fic, or queerplatonic relationship. If you don't know what that is, I highly encourage you to look it up/familiarize yourself with it if you want to sort of understand how I'm writing them. They are both polyamorous, and there's no cheating going on.
> 
> Finally, I apologize for the math.
> 
> Also, how are all of y'all doing? Starving for CR content like I am? Watching Ashley play Inside? Enjoying the narrative telephone serious? (Looking forward to Sam fucking up the next one?) Crying as you watch AWNP Unplugged? Something else entirely? Whatever you're doing, I hope you all are staying safe and staying healthy <3

“Caleb.”

“Mm?”

“You should hurry up and learn to drive so you can take us to school.”

Caleb sighs and smushes his face against the window. Nott isn’t even looking at him. “Yes, I suppose so.”

There’s music playing from the radio, but Caleb doesn’t hear it. He’s fixed his eyes on a spot on the ceiling and his mind on some point far beyond this car. He feels too old for school, too old for sitting in the backseat of a car when the shotgun is empty, too old to be stressing out over precalculus when there’s shit like global warming and systematic opression and war going on. It’s not that he’s not grateful--far from it. A year ago Caleb would’ve given anything to have school as the biggest of his problems, but now it feels almost...anticlimactic.

Una’s watching him whenever they stop at a light. He can feel it, but he doesn’t turn towards her. Her concern is almost stifling, but she doesn’t say anything. He closes his eyes and sighs. Nott shifts on the other side of the car, and his bag thumps against his boots. None of it feels real.

“Caleb,” starts Nott again, as they get out of the car. Caleb attempts a smile at Una, but he is sure that it’s strangled and half there. Nott sees him and screeches over her shoulder. “Thanks mom! Caleb-”

“Yes, Nott?”

“What’s your first class?”

Caleb has to think for a minute. He’s still getting used to his schedule. “European History,” he says finally.

“Lucky,” Nott grumbles. She has to jog to keep up with his longer strides, but she’s maintaining a spot at his side all the way up the walk to the front doors. “I’ve got P.E.”

Caleb winces in sympathy. “That’s unfortunate.”

“You’re telling me,” Nott says with feeling. “At least it’s over after this year…”

Caleb’s not sure what to say to let her know he’s still engaged in the conversation, so he makes a vaguely affirming noise as he pulls open the door for her.

“I wish we had lunch together,” Nott continues. Caleb’s a little taken aback at the basic friendliness, but he manages a small smile.

“Ah...you don’t want to sit with me. You must have friends you’d rather sit with--I would just make things awkward.”

Nott looks like she wants to say something, but instead reaches up to fiddle with the buttons on her arm warmer. It’s hard to carry on a conversation inside anyways; the crush of bodies around them threatens to tear the much shorter Nott away from Caleb, and it’s so loud that Caleb wants to pull his hood up and close his eyes to just adjust to the roar for a second. After a brief struggle to catch back up with him (he’s trying to go slow, but people keep glaring at him and shoulder checking if he stops for too long), she manages, “Jes is supposed to have the same lunch as I do, but I haven’t seen her yet.”

Caleb shrugs as they reach the first stairwell, which is where they branch off. “Maybe you can find her today, then.”

“Maybe!” Nott squeaks back, and then she darts off in the direction of the gym. Caleb moves on to history, feeling distinctly more lonely than he did this morning getting in the car.

Besides Nott, Caleb doesn’t know a single soul at this school, which makes it very easy for him to zone in on the notes he needs to take, scrawling everything out in his barely legible shorthand and somehow managing to transport information from slideshow to notebook without absorbing a single particle of information.

He’s distracted. Unhappy. Or uneasy, or...some other uncomfortable feeling that he can’t quite identify. There’s a knot in the pit of his stomach that he can’t unravel, and the most comforting thing he can think to tell himself is that at least his notes are on the page, and he can look over them tonight and teach himself whatever the fuck is happening right now. He lets his left hand drift to his hoodie pocket briefly and touch the corner of his phone. It shouldn’t be on him, really, but...he shakes his head, looks back up at the board. Later. Later. This class is almost over anyway. He’s not going to get in trouble the third week of school and he is certainly not going to have anyone report back to Una and Leo about him. He will not put that on the line.

European History ends, mercifully, with the only homework being to review the notes they’d taken in class. Caleb gathers his things and zips out the door nearly before anyone else can move. He’s not used to sitting still too long, and besides, he wants to get to English before anyone can take the seat that he’s vaguely claimed for himself--right at the front but close to the window. His phone has not buzzed all morning, and it’s making the uncomfortable feeling worse.

When he gets to English, there’s only two other people in the classroom--his teacher, who everyone just calls Dairon, as near as Caleb can tell, or sometimes Professor Dairon (although he’s not sure she’s actually a professor), and the kid from the coffee shop. Mollymauk.

Neither of them have noticed him yet; he’s pretty quiet, and they’re deep in conversation. However, they are both right over by his desk. Molly is perched on the windowsill as though he lives there, and Dairon doesn’t seem to be bothered by it. So he just...hovers awkwardly in the doorway.

It’s odd to see Mollymauk in anything but the plain black clothes he’s been in on the two...okay, three...occasions that Caleb has been back to Helios. He’s wearing the gothiest studded black skinny jeans with these absolutely ridiculous rainbow platform converse and a purple button down patterend with little crystals. There’s a tiny braid in his hair, tucked back behind his ear. It reminds Caleb of the braids Nott does in her own hair when she’s anxious, weaving and unweaving them over and over again but never quite deciding to keep them.

Caleb doesn’t exactly notice what people are wearing, usually; he’s too busy worrying that people will think that whatever he’s wearing is stupid. (Not likely, as he rarely ventures outside of jeans and hoodie territory.) But Mollymauk sort of...begs to be noticed. Caleb squirms for a couple more seconds in the doorway, and then starts slowly approaching his regular seat.

Mollymauk looks up then, and flashes him the wickedest grin. He looks back at Dairon. “Well; thank you very much. I shall see you tomorrow. Have a good day.”

Dairon is smiling, but just barely. She turns back to whatever it is that teachers do behind their desk between classes. “Try not to get in too much trouble, Mr. Tealeaf.”

“No promises,” Mollymauk returns, and winks unmistakably at Caleb. _Check_ _your phone_ , Caleb sees him mouth, and then he’s gone.

Caleb’s very glad that Dairon is the only one in the room to witness him blush down to his throat.

♡ ♡ ♡

Molly wakes up whimpering, and he’s not sure why, but he can’t stop the panicked gasps emerging from him for a second, and in that brief loss of control Yasha shoots up from the tangle of blankets next to him, and then for a moment they are both mutually panicking and there is something _almost_ comforting about that, until Yasha says, “oh,” softly, and sinks back down.

“Mollymauk Tealeaf, we need to talk about this.”

“I don’t _fucking_ want to,” he says, using the emphasis of the curse to push himself out of his spiral of hyperventilation, and Yasha sits back up.

“Molly…”

“I’m sorry.”

“Mollymauk.”

He covers his face with his hands and breathes through his fingers until he no longer feels like his lungs are going to collapse.

“You’ve spent far too much time giving me the space to vent and...and feel safe...to not deserve the same thing.” Yasha sounds almost angry.

“I...I don’t want to start something I can’t stop.”

He feels the mattress dip as Yasha shifts her position, and when she next speaks, her tone has completely shifted. “Molly? What do you mean?”

Her hand’s on his back, just barely, nails scratching gently down his spine. He takes a deep breath and tries to pull his hands away from his face, but they feel stuck. He doesn’t want her to look at him. Not right now.

“It’s not about the boy…?”

“No, it’s not about the boy.” Molly chews over that. “Not...no. He’s fine. I’m fine with...I’m. It’s fine. As long as you’re fine.”

“Of course.”

“Then it’s not about the boy.”

Yasha pulls her duvet up around him, and he buries his face in the feathery softness of it. It’s letting him take his hands back to himself, and he can circle his index fingers and thumbs over and over the chipped nail polish there, just for something to do.

“Then…what is it about?” Yasha asks quietly.

“I don’t know if I can tell you yet.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t know _how_ to tell you.”

Yasha considers this. “Would it help if you wrote it down?”

“Maybe? I don’t--I don’t know if I have the words.”

Yasha hums softly to herself, then flicks on the lamp on her nightstand and gets up. Molly rolls away from the light.

“Go back to sleep, Mollymauk. I’m going to make breakfast.”

“You never eat breakfast.”

Yasha shrugs, hunting around on the floor for a clean shirt. “It’s something to do.” _While you calm down_ , he hears in his head, mildly accusing, as she turns away. He can’t go back to sleep, not in the cold void of her parent’s house without her next to him. Instead he feels around on the nightstand for his phone and tugs it under the tent he’s made of the duvet. The screen is far too bright, even on its lowest setting, and he is bone tired but deeply restless. He pulls up his and Caleb’s conversation and stares into the little text box for a minute, debating. It’s five in the morning, far too early to text anyone that you also texted last night near midnight, and so instead he just scrolls backwards for a while.

Caleb is succinct, sharp as a whip, but oddly hesitant. Molly wonders if there’s something in his own demeanor that’s made Caleb anxious, or if perhaps he’s misjudged the boy’s intent. It’s nice, talking to someone just as friends, about schoolwork or music or places they’ve been, but even Molly’s most innocent expressions of fondness are met with an almost frightened trepidation. Perhaps he should just stop talking to him for a bit.

Molly moves the duvet a little away from his face to look for Yasha, but she’s already headed downstairs. He thinks about Caleb in the coffee shop, about the way his hands shake around every cup Molly hands him, about the rabbitlike quickness with which he stares up at every customer who enters the shop, the way he presses his back against the wall, and an uneasy feeling crawls over his skin. Maybe Yasha is right. Maybe it is about the boy.

When he finally comes downstairs, it’s somewhat sheepishly. Last night had been kind of a snap decision, so he’s dug around in Yasha’s closet until he finds a shirt that suits him. She’s way taller than him, so he just pulls on the jeans he was wearing yesterday. He sees her try to hide her smile when he comes down with his arms folded over her shirt--it’s the exact shade of green that clashes incredibly with his hair (precisely why he chose it). There are two plates set out on the breakfast bar with a couple of waffles stacked meticulously on each. Yasha’s poured two glasses of orange juice and set a bottle of maple syrup in the direct center of the two plates with almost devastatingly pointless care. Molly smirks.

“Wonderful job toasting the frozen waffles, dear.”

Yasha inclines her head slightly and the smile claws its way back onto her face. “Only the best for you.”

They eat in relative silence. Yasha gets syrup all over her fingers, as she insists that waffles are meant to be eaten by hand. Molly just shoves the roll of paper towers over towards her side of the bar, and she takes it without comment. It’s nice to have breakfast for once, instead of sprinting out the door with a power bar and his makeup half done. Yasha’s too good to him.

“We’ll get out of here, Molly,” she says out of the blue, and he looks up, but she’s just gazing out the window. She’s twisting her glass around in her hands, and he watches as the last few sips chase each other around the bottom. “I promise I’ll get you out of here.”

He has a feeling she’s not just talking about the road trip, so he just nods and stands up. “We’re gonna be late.”

♡ ♡ ♡

Someone slams into the seat opposite Caleb so hard the table shakes. He looks up, bewildered, but the girl across from him hasn’t even seemed to notice that he’s there.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck _f_ _uck_ ,” she whispers under her breath, and starts pulling books and binders out of her bag, clearly looking for something that isn’t there.

 _“FUCK,”_ she finishes, banging a textbook down next to her loud enough that a few heads at other tables turn, even over the din in the cafeteria. Caleb chews mechanically at the cardboard-y pizza in his hands, staring at her wide eyed.

“Are you...alright?” he asks slowly.

The girl looks up at him for the first time, and he notices her hands are shaking. “Ah,” she says, and then, slightly more eloquently, “fuck.”

Caleb tilts his head at her, nonplussed.

“Sorry,” she mutters, her tone lowered to the point where he doesn’t feel the need to cover his ears. “I, uh. I didn’t notice anyone at this table. You’re kinda quiet.” She blinks down at the innards of her backpack scattered across the table and starts to gather them up, clearly intent on moving. “I’ll. I’ll stop bothering you.”

“Wait,” says Caleb. “Are you sure you don’t need help?”

She freezes, fist clenched around a handful of highlighters, to meet his gaze. She seems to really take him in for the first time; the messy hair, the hunched shoulders, the perpetually chapped lower lip where he’s chewed it nervously. She narrows her eyes. “Are you any good at math?”

“Decently good at it, _ja_.”

She slowly relinquishes her grip on the highlighters to reach a hand across the table to him. “Beauregard Lionett.”

“Caleb Widogast,” he says, taking her hand gingerly. The discerning look intensifies.

“Are you new?” she asks.

“Um. Yes. Senior transfer.”

“Huh.” She chews over that, then opens her textbook and begins frantically flipping through pages.

“What are you working on?” Caleb asks.

“Stupid fucking imaginary numbers.”

Caleb perks up a little and tugs the textbook gently away from her when she seems to land on the correct page.

“This is due _today_. Like next period.” She seems to be talking more to herself than to him. “And I did start it already, I really fucking did, but I can’t find whatever I did with that piece of paper, and what in the hell is a number imaginary anyway? Like isn’t that the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?”

Caleb frowns, but it’s more at the textbook than at her. “Do you have paper?”

“I…” Beauregard glances over the scattered mess she’s made of the table, and then back down into her backpack, not even caring to make a show of looking for something she knows isn’t there. Caleb nods and pulls out one of his own binders, and hands her a sheet of paper. “Thank you,” she mutters, and buries her head in her hands for a second before scrabbling around for a pencil and flipping the textbook around so she can read it, quietly scribbling down her name and a number for each problem. Caleb doesn’t look too carefully at her face. Instead, he comes around to the other side of the table, abandoning his cardboard pizza, to sit next to her.

“It is a little stupid,” he concedes, “but once you get the hang of it it’s really quite easy. It’s just a little memorization and then the answers become obvious. Here.” He grabs another pencil from Beauregard’s pile and writes in tiny script at the side of the page

_i_ 0 = 1

 _i_ 1 = _i_

 _i_ 2 = -1

 _i_ 3 = - _i_

and then looks up at her. She’s squinting down at the numbers and frowning, pencil tapping against the table.

“You remember that,” he tells her, “and you will be just fine. Zero, one, two, three, and one, i, negative one, negative i.”

Beauregard shakes her head a little bit, looking half confused. “Okaaaaay?” It’s the kind of response that he could see being interpreted as smugness or dismissive by someone--well, someone more important than him. Anyone who thinks they’re worth being challenged. But he can see her eyes flitting up and down the pages of her textbook, and then back at the numbers he’s written. She’s taking it in. Maybe not committing it to memory, but trying to fit it together against all the other stuff she’s already been told.

“This one,” he says, tapping the page next to a problem that says ‘Simplify _i_ 1’, “is easy.”

“Right,” says Beauregard, and fills in an _i_ next to the corresponding number.

“There’s a few more like that. Fill those in first and then we’ll move on to the harder stuff.”

She nods, sniffles, and then scrubs her nose on her sleeve as she continues to fill in the sheet with relative swiftness and ease. She looks up at him when she’s finished, a little of her desperation ebbing away.

“Now,” he says, pointing to a problem that simply says ‘ _i_ 4’, “you just follow the pattern. It keeps going,” he says, gesturing to the numbers he’s already written, “one, i, negative one, negative i, over and over again, as the numbers go up. So that would be-”

“Just a one,” she says. He sees something click in her head and she nods to herself, filling in the rest of the sheet with almost feverish speed.

“It does get a little bit more difficult when the numbers get higher, but there are tricks for figuring that out that I can show you,” he says.

“Thank you,” she whispers breathlessly, looking back and forth between her completed homework and his somewhat blank expression. “Oh my god, thank you, I still have time to eat--” she glances up at the clock on the wall, and then digs around in her backpack for a brown paper bag and pulls out a slightly squashed sandwich and a tangerine. “What do I owe you? Do you, uh-” she digs through her pockets and apparently comes up empty. “Fuck. Okay. Um. Half my sandwich? I have chips?” She starts to rummage through her backpack again, putting her head almost inside of it. “Or I could get you some weed, if that’s your thing, I know people--”

“It’s alright,” says Caleb, when he can gather his words. “It’s not as though it cost me anything.” He tugs his tray back over to Beauregard’s side of the table. “I already have food. And I do not smoke.”

Beauregard frowns at him. “Money, then? I don’t have any on me, but--”

Caleb shakes his head, oddly touched. “It is alright, truly. As I said, it cost me nothing.”

She comes back out of her bag slowly. “If--if you’re sure.” She looks down at her homework and heaves a deep breath. “Jesus. How come no one said it to me like that before?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queerplatonic Relationships: http://wiki.asexuality.org/Queerplatonic https://aromantic.wikia.org/wiki/Queerplatonic 
> 
> Imaginary Numbers, if you also need help with that: https://www.khanacademy.org/math/algebra2/x2ec2f6f830c9fb89:complex/x2ec2f6f830c9fb89:imaginary/v/introduction-to-i-and-imaginary-numbers
> 
> Narrative Telephone w/ the CR Cast, if you didn't know about/hadn't seen it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HHCSECk3s04


	4. then we are off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jester has some fun with Nott, and Beau has some decidedly not fun with Yasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What UP I am BACK only FOUR hours late, holy shit you guys I actually have an upload schedule, what? Not since 2012...anyway, enjoy this chapter! No warnings this time!
> 
> ***Because there is so much going on in this fic with fucking six POVs (and that's not even all of the main characters!!) I am considering writing some one shots for this universe that are not necessary to the main story but just kinda fun, and throwing those in. What do y'all think?***

It takes Jester a few weeks to really settle into the groove of things, but by the time the Halloween dance is announced, she feels reasonably on top of her schedule. Nott, on the other hand, looks no more prepared for the school year than she did on the first day. They’re sitting at a table in the library while Nott frantically tries to remember what time she’s getting picked up.

“Just call your brother,” Jester tells her, hardly looking up from her sketch.

Nott bristles. “He’s not my--” she deflates a little. “I can’t call him, I don’t want to bother him.”

Jester frowns. “Nott. What could be soooo important that you can’t just call him and ask him what time your mom is coming to get you?”

“I--I don’t know, okay? I know he’s at some kind of club but I don’t know what they’re _doing_ , what if I interrupt something super important and then he hates me forever?”

Jester blinks, a little bewildered. “I don’t think he’ll hate you _forever._ Maybe he’ll just be, you know, super annoyed, and then he’ll get over it, and he’ll say oh okay Nott, I didn’t realize you were calling with such an important question. Mom is picking us up in an hour.” She gives Nott a toothy grin, but Nott, too intent on methodically shredding the piece of notebook paper in her hands, doesn’t even look at her.

“He doesn’t call her mom,” she mutters. “He says Una. That’s weird. Isn’t that weird?”

Jester shrugs. “I don’t know, Nott, I mean--”

“He’s always weird,” Nott mutters on top of her. “So weird.”

“Did you text him?”

“Yes! And he didn’t even respond, he’s probably going to be really mad if I call...ughhh…”

“Did you text your mom?”

“I got her...what do you call it...the autotext thing.”

“Did you call her? Did you text your dad? Did you call your dad?”

Nott waits for her to finish, mouth pressed into a hard line. “No response, no response, no response. They’re proooobably still at work.”

“Maybe you can get some homework done while you wait?”

“UGH.”

Jester looks back down at her sketchpad and shifts it a little bit to fill in her shading. “Weeeelll, technically, you could come help me babysit Kiri?”

Nott visibly perks up, and then tries to hide it. “I don’t know, Jes…”

Jester closes her sketchpad to focus on Nott, leaning on her elbows across the table. “Okay. Here’s what we can do. Text Caleb, tell him you’re going home wih a friend and not to worry about you, and then text your mom and tell her that I’ll take you home in a little bit and that we’re hanging out for a while. Okay?”

Nott chews at her lip. “What will Kiri’s parents say?”

Jester blows a raspberry at her. “They’re _fine_ . They know my mama, they trust me. And Kiri is just going to _love_ you, oh my goodness, it will be wonderful.”

Nott seems unconvinced, so Jester pulls out her phone for good measure. “Look. I’ll call them right now and make sure it’s okay, and then when they come pick me up they can just take you too, okay?”

“Okay,” says Nott grudgingly, and immediately her hands go to the tangle of her hair, braiding it deftly away from her face and over one shoulder. Jester tugs a hair tie off her wrist and hands it to Nott as she walks out of the library to call, and Nott shoots her a look that is so full of gratitude that she feels a little undeserving. She’s pretty sure there’s something going on besides just forgetting when she gets picked up to make Nott act so agitated. She’s so back and forth about Caleb--one day she’s going on about how cool he is and the next she acts like she doesn’t want to know him, and Jester still hasn’t met him. She really wants to, but the only other people besides her mama who take her places are Kiri’s parents to babysit, and she hates asking anyone else to drive her anywhere. Plus it would be so weird to ask Nott to bring her brother over to her mama’s house, if they’ve never met.

Kiri’s parents are super lovely and understanding about Nott, and Jester has their assurance that they can pick her up and even take her home after Jester is done babysitting, if it’s not too far. She tells them that it isn’t, and she’s only sort of guessing. She’s been to Nott’s house a couple of times and is trying to place it in her head. At any rate, Jester goes back into the library to gather her things (and Nott) so they can go wait outside the school now that everything is sorted out.

“It’s going to be fine,” Jester singsongs. “Kiri’s going to love you so SO so much…”

“I guess,” Nott grumbles.

“So much!” Jester screeches, just as the Shuster soccer van pulls up. Nott sighs.

She’s very quiet in the car, which Jester only realizes because the Shusters, who are used to her constant chatter and even facilitate it by asking how classes are going and how her friends are and her mama, are adding in “and what about you, Nott?”, which is mostly answered with a couple of unintelligible mumbles. Jester’s never known Nott to be shy, even around adults, but she’s already in a weird enough mood that Jester decides not to poke at her.

When they get to the Shuster house, Austin is sitting next to Kiri on the couch, reading to her. They both look up when Jester and Nott enters, and Kiri lets out a delighted screech and throws herself around Jester’s calves. Austin looks up at Jester and blows his bangs out of face, shooting Jester a grateful but weary smile. “What’s up?” he asks between Kiri’s happy squeaks.

“Not much!” Jester yells back, sweeping Kiri into her arms and twirling her around. Kiri’s squeaks devolve into giggles. “Hey Austin, this is Nott, she’s going to help me with Kiri this evening.”

Austin gives Nott a lazy salute, and then pushes himself up from the couch with exaggerated weariness. Nott gives him a slight nod. “Have fun. She’s energetic today. I’ll be in my room totally not procrastinating on my science project.”

“Sounds good,” Jester tells him. “Kiri and Nott and I can make dinner. Right, Kiri?”

Kiri responds by yanking on a lock of Jester’s hair, considering it for a moment, and then shoving it in her mouth. Nott winces, and Jester giggles. “Real food, Kiri. We’re going to make real food.”

♡ ♡ ♡

Beau has been expecting her imminent execution. She just didn’t expect the delivery method to be quite so excruciating.

When she’d selected drawing as an elective, she didn’t think there would be so much boring art history forced onto them. She thought they’d just be...well...drawing. So she’s drifting off a little as Mr. Zeenoth drones on about impressionism, but the whole class suddenly jolts alert as the door swings open and a girl Beau recognizes clomps in.

Yasha Nydoorin is in both her English class and her debate class and Beau has easily paid twice as much attention to her as she has to literally any of her schoolwork so far this year. Most of the juniors are scared of her, and probably, Beau thinks, most of the seniors as well. She’s on the varsity volleyball team, a position that Beau has envied after uselessly for all three years of high school, knowing that her grades will never be good enough to allow her to be on any sports team. (She still goes to the games, when she can drag Tori along. Occasionally Nel comes, solely to carry out deals, and Beau gets talked into being lookout. Ironic that the only time she actually wants to pay attention, she can’t.) Beau’s been trying to work out for ages how to pull Yasha into her circle of friends, even back when they were in middle school, but it never seemed like there was a right time. Yasha’s reputation as “the silent one” is so strong that Beau’s not sure she’s ever heard someone talk about actually having a conversation with her, despite the abundance of rumors about her.

Mr. Zeenoth’s droning grounds to a halt as he looks up at Yasha. “Yes, Miss Nydoorin?”

Yasha walks over to him and mutters something too quiet for Beau to hear, and then hands him a slip of paper. Beau watches his eyes scan over it, her throat going dry.

“Beauregard?”

She stands up without even having been asked and pulls her hoodie more firmly around her shoulders, trying to hide the fact that she is wearing a tank top that is most certainly not allowed in the dress code. “Yeah, I’ll go,” she mumbles.

Mr. Zeenoth raises an eyebrow. “Take your things with you, just in case.”

Beau’s heart thuds. That is absolutely never a good sign. She nods, grabs her sketchbook from where it sits unopened on her desk, and shoves it into her bag, slinging it heavily onto one shoulder. She can feel the eyes of the rest of the class on her, but Yasha’s gaze is the heaviest. As she approaches the door Yasha holds it open for her, and then falls into lockstep with her as they both walk out. Beau gives her what she hopes is a cool nod, but Yasha just raises an eyebrow at her.

Beau wracks her brain for any shred of truth she’s heard in the rumors about Yasha. Some people say she’s dating Mollymauk Tealeaf, which is absurd given Molly’s popularity and charm. Some people say she has anger management issues, and that she’s strong enough to literally knock out anyone who crosses her. Some people say that she got called into the office once for wearing a crop top and her dad called the principle and chewed him out so thoroughly that Yasha basically wore whatever she wanted after that with no consequences. Beau tries to subtly glance at whatever Yasha’s wearing now, without being weird about it. Pale jeans, doc martens, and a black crop top that allows the barest strip of midriff to show through. Beau quickly directs her eyes back to Yasha’s face. So maybe that rumor is true.

Yasha’s makeup looks more like warpaint--not in a way that makes Beau think that she doesn’t know how to apply it, but more of a “this took two hours and I’ll punch anyone who tells me I’m overdoing it” sort of way. A silvery mask frames her eyes, outlined in black, and a thick black stripe runs from her lips down her chin.

“So,” Yasha says, and Beau can feel her face start to burn. “What’d you do?”

“Nothing that’s any of your business,” Beau mumbles, and then immediately regrets it. This is literally the first time Yasha’s spoken to her.

But Yasha merely shrugs, seemingly unoffended. “You’re probably right. I’m just being nosy. It’s not often I get notes from Dairon. I was curious.”

Beau’s mouth goes dry. “Wait, what?”

Yasha looks mildly embarrassed for a moment. “Uh, I forgot.” She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out the note she’d shown Mr. Zeenoth. “Here.”

Beau takes a minute to decipher the note: Dairon’s quick cursive basically looks like scribbles to her. It reads, “Please have Beauregard Lionett come see me in my classroom during my planning period.” The signature is, if possible, even more indecipherable, but Beau doesn’t need to read it; she’s seen this handwriting all over her English essays.

She folds the note back and sticks it into her pocket, frowning at Yasha. “I, uh. I didn’t know you were an office aide.”

Yasha shrugs. “It is something to do.”

“Right,” Beau says, trying to imagine anyone voluntarily spending a free period running errands for teachers. “Sure.”

Yasha doesn’t try to fill the silence, which makes Beau uncomfortable. She tries to come up with something to say, anything, but everything that crosses her mind seems dumb and pointless, and so she still hasn’t opened her mouth by the time they get to Dairon’s classroom, where as Yasha starts to say “Well-” she blurts out, “Is it really true that you’re dating Mollymauk Tealeaf?”

Yasha’s expression goes almost cold, and Beau immediately regrets saying anything. Finally, Yasha says, “Molly is my partner, yes,” and stands stock still beside the lockers as though waiting for Beau to say more, to explain her question.

Beau, for her part, can’t do anything but shrug again. “Cooool, just, wondering, cause you guys are like...I dunno...you seem pretty different.”

Yasha raises an eyebrow without a hint of humor. “Are we?”

“I don’t know,” says Beau helplessly. “I gotta go.” She throws open the door to Dairon’s classroom, flings herself inside, and slams the door before she can say anything else stupid.

Dairon, who is sitting at her desk, looks up at her less than graceful entrance and very deliberately puts aside the stack of papers she was grading.

“Beauregard. Perfect.”

Beau winces. “What did I do this time?”

Dairon leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. “Have a seat.”

Beau shuffles uncomfortably, glancing at the desks behind her.

“...Or you can stand,” Dairon says, turning her gaze towards the line of windows on the other side of the classroom. “You didn’t do anything. Yet. Or...no, let me rephrase that. You have probably done many things, but to my knowledge none of the staff has recently caught you.”

Beau fiddles nervously with the strap of her backpack. It’s starting to dig into her shoulder. “Then...this is about my grades?”

“No, actually. Well, those could stand to be improved and you’re always welcome to come in for tutoring.” Beau makes a face, and Dairon gives her a stern look. “What this is about, Beau, is your refusal to talk to the guidance counselor last week.”

“So I _did_ do something,” Beau says accusingly.

Dairon sighs. “You’re not in trouble, Beauregard.”

Beau shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, waiting for Dairon to continue, before she realizes that Dairon is waiting for her to react.

“So...uh…” She clears her throat. “There’s gotta be a ‘but’ at the end of that sentence, right? ‘You’re not in trouble, _but_ …”

“You’re not in trouble, but I would like to know why you refused to speak to him.”

Beau suddenly finds herself very interested in the carpet. “I don’t _need_ to talk to a guidance counselor.”

“Ordinarily I would understand your trepidation, but it is not as though you were singled out. You’re a junior. Everyone in your entire class is required to see their respective counselors to discuss college prospects, next year’s schedule, any-”

“I’m not going to college,” Beau blurts out.

Dairon raises an eyebrow. “No one said you had to go to college, Beau. But that is something you could discuss with a counselor. Trade school, maybe, or an apprenticeship, or how to build a resume. What you want to do with yourself beyond this building.”

Beau takes the use of her nickname like a slap in the face, and keeps her eyes firmly fixed on the floor. “That’s not--I--” She takes a frustrated deep breath. “I’m sixteen, I have time, I don’t want to think about all that shit yet.”

“Beauregard-”

“I just!” Beau yelps over her. “I just really don’t fucking want to talk to a counselor. Please. And thank you. I’m sorry. Please don’t, fuckin...write me up or whatever, I just...I’m going to think about it by myself, okay?”

Dairon studies her critically for a long moment. Beau meets her gaze and holds it, taking a more controlled breath in.

“I’m not going to force you to talk to anyone,” she says finally. “I simply think it may be helpful to you and your future.”

“Great.” Beau mumbles. “Because I definitely have one of those.”

Dairon pauses a long moment before responding. “If you do find yourself in need of tutoring, I am available every day after school except Wednesdays. Have a good afternoon, Beauregard.”

She returns to her papers as though Beau isn’t even there, shaking slightly for God knows what reason and trying to compose herself.

“Bye, Dairon,” she finally says, and leaves the classroom.

The note in her pocket says nothing about the length of the meeting, so Beau locks herself in one of the stalls of the upstairs girl’s bathroom for the rest of the period, staring blankly at the ceiling and twisting the little shell patterned leather bracelets that Jester had given her around and around.

♡ ♡ ♡

By the time dinner is finished, Jester is thoroughly exhausted. Kiri is covered in mashed potatoes, and Jester is sure there’s at least a little in her own hair. Nott, for the most part, seems to have come through relatively unscathed, despite chipping in quite a lot.

“All done!” she chirps at Kiri. “Whew!”

Kiri makes a happy noise that could be an imitation of the “whew”, and Jester sets her down to wash her hands. Nott is sitting on the counter, carefully pulling plates down from a cabinet and watching them from the corner of her eye. Jester catches her gaze. “Are you okay, Nott? You’ve been very quiet, you’re not usually quiet.”

Nott shrugs. “I’m...I’m alright, I suppose, Jessie. Just thinking.”

“Whatcha thinkin bouuuut?”

“Oh, just stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Tuff,” Kiri squeaks. “Tuff!”

“Very _good_ , Kiri!” Jester tells her, and claps. “Stuff! Good job!”

“ _Stuff!”_ Kiri says happily, and twirls circles around the kitchen. Jester eyes her for a moment, making sure she doesn’t bump into anything, and then turns back to Nott.

“What kind of stuff?”

Nott kicks gently against the counter, and Jester takes the stack of plates from her to begin setting the table. Sometimes Nott will talk more when people are not looking at her.

“Stuf about--about Caleb, I suppose.”

“What about Caleb?”

“Oh, I--I don’t know. Oh, hello Kiri.”

“Kiri!” Kiri squeals. “Hi! Hi, Kiri, hi.”

“She gets really excited when she hears her name, because she’s just figured out how to say it a little bit ago,” Jester explains. “She hasn’t quite gotten hello yet but she can do hi.”

“Is she--” Nott starts, and then pauses. “She’s four, right?”

“She has Downs,” Jester says quickly, before Nott can stumble through a list of awkward questions. “So it’s good that you talk to her like that, like normal, and not babble at her.” She thinks for a moment. “Wellll really for any kid, I think. It’s good for them to hear lots and lots of words.” She sweeps back into the kitchen for more utensils, patting Kiri on the head as she goes. “Right, Kiri? Lots and lots of words.”

She beams at Nott, who gives her sort of a relieved smile as she watches Kiri cling to Jester’s leg. Jester shuffles along carefully as she lays the utensils out, still wanting to keep her eyes mostly off Nott. “Soooo, what are some words about Caleb?”

“Well…” Nott starts, and does the long sigh that Jester knows is the start of something she doesn’t want to say. “I don’t know, Jes, I think there’s something wrong with him?”

“Something wrong with him how?” Jester asks, twirling back into the kitchen for a potholder and the dish of mashed potatoes.

“He’s...he’s...I don’t know, he’s all quiet and he spends all day in his room doing homework on _purpose_ , and he never watches tv with us and he’s got all these candles and he never talks at dinner and he’s weird in school, too, like he’s nice to me I guess, he says hi and everything, but he’s always by himself and he always wears the same coat even though Mom _got_ him a new one…” Nott trails off. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe he just needs a friend?” Jester suggests, but Nott shakes her head vehemently.

“I don’t think he wants friends,” she says, and she sounds convinced.

“Maybeeee,” Jester starts, turning it over in her head, “Maybe he just needs time, you know? Like my mama and going into the garden this summer? She used to not be able to do it at all and now she can do it pretty much all the time, probably, if I go with her. Maybe he just needs to get used to the garden--but like, the garden is the whole town?”

“Maybe,” Nott says sulkily, and slides off the counter to help Jester with the rest of the dishes.

“Shusteeeers!” Jester screeches at the ceiling. “Dinner is ready!”

Kiri tilts her head back to the ceiling and screeches too, and then looks at Jester for approval. Jester scoops her up and sets her on her hip, waiting for the Shuster kids to trickle downstairs.

“Do you have a date to the Halloween dance, Nott?” Jester asks, partially to take her mind off Caleb, partially because she is totally freaking out about it and has been holding back from asking all day.

“No,” Nott sighs. “I’m not even sure I want to go, honestly.”

“Nooooott you have to go, it’s going to be so much fun but it won’t be as much fun without you! Also, also, you have to help me choose who I’m going to ask.”

Nott blinks. “You’re asking someone?”

Jester adjusts her hold on Kiri. “Well, I don’t to wait around until someone asks me because what if no one does? And all the good guys are taken? And then I will just have to go all by myself and that would be so lame, and--”

“I’ll go with you, if you don’t find a date,” Nott sighs.

“REALLY?” Jester squeals. “I mean. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, obviously, but that would be pretty...pretty cool, if I don’t find a date.”

“Sure,” says Nott. “Maybe I can drag Caleb and then you can finally meet him. It would be a good excuse to get my parents let you come over, at the very least.”

Austin, Gail, and Jude come down the stairs at this point, looking both tired and hungry. Jester tries to contain her excitement as she turns towards them. “Where’s Layla, you guys?”

“She’s asleep,” Gail says, her expression a mixture of exasperated and amused.

“Oh!” says Jester, and then, “oh,” in a much quieter voice, clapping her hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she giggles. “I’ll put a plate out for her in case she gets up.”

“Thanks,” says Gail, and flops into a chair. Her siblings follow suit, and as they begin serving themselves Jester sits down and settles Kiri in her lap.

“Juice,” Kiri mumbles, and Jester gives her a frown.

“Juice what?”

“Juice PEAAAS.”

“Very good, Kiri. Juice please.” Jester unscrews the top of Kiri’s sippy cup and starts to pour the apple juice she’s put out on the table. Austin catches her eye across the table, and makes a slight head nod towards Kiri’s booster seat, which stands empty.

“You know, you don’t absolutely _have_ to…?”

“I know,” says Jester, and gives him a bright grin. He looks down, nods, smiles back.

“Thank you.”

“You’re very super welcome, and so is Kiri.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a note, I have spent much of my adult (and teen) life doing professional childcare and just regular babysitting and I've taken care of quite a few kids with special needs including some with Downs Syndrome. HOWEVER, I am not a doctor or anything, I am basing most of my knowledge off of personal experience and frantic googling, so I apologize if I get anything wrong. (Please let me know.)


	5. without reproach and without hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly finds himself falling further down the rabbit hole. Caleb finds himself in an awkward situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! I am SO sorry that this chapter took so long to come out, I have had...........a lot of stuff going on, to put it mildly. I'm hoping to get this on a weekly schedule, but we'll see what happens.
> 
> TWs on this chapter for bad flashbacks, I suppose? I'm not really sure what to call them. Memory issues for sure.

For some godforsaken reason, Yasha has insisted that Molly do her makeup. This means that instead of her usual anxious three hour prep, they’re doing four. Molly bites back every exasperated comment he wants to make reassuring her, and instead focuses his energy on the painfully elaborate design she’s picked out, eyes darting back and forth from her face to his reference.

“Are you sure you don’t-”

“Course I’m sure,” Molly says, before she can try and convince him to abandon her for the school’s lame Halloween dance. “Don’t move your lips, I’ve already had five panic attacks over this lip liner.”

Yasha stifles a laugh, and her face relaxes a bit.

“There’s no place I’d rather be tonight than with you,” Molly tells her, and means it.

Still, it doesn’t prevent him from thinking about the dance. It _is_ stupid--it’s just high school, the best they're going to have is overpriced snacks and dollar store streamers and an underpaid DJ who isn’t allowed to play anything with sex or swearing in it. But there might--well, there might be _people_ there. And Molly likes people. A lot. Not that he doesn’t like Yasha, of course, but...well, it’s different.

“Hey, I wanted to--”

“No, seriously Yasha, don’t talk. Two minutes.”

Yasha makes an unhappy noise but keeps her lips carefully still until Molly moves on to fill out the little filigree designs trailing off from her eyebrows with eyeliner.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Mhm?”

“I, uh--” Yasha clears her throat. “I’ve been doing some research, and. And, uh. Some thinking. And some planning.” Her mouth twists and she makes a face like she’s in pain, and Molly takes his hand away from her face so she can think without worrying about being mindful of his hand. Her eyes dart up to meet his and then down to her lap. “I don’t want to overstep.”

Molly rocks back on his heels, thoroughly confused. “Overstep, dear?”

“Yes.” Yasha chews at her lower lip. “Would you maybe--ahhhhh, I’m sorry, this is all wrong.” She makes a motion like she’s going to drop her face into her hands but thinks better of it as Molly lets out a slight squeak of protest. “I was wondering if maybe you would like to go to the bank with me?”

Molly just stares for a moment, trying to process the leaps of logic and reasoning that Yasha must’ve just gone through to pinpoint the origin of this frankly straight up weird question.

“I mean...do you...are you asking me to run an errand with you?”

“Ahh...no.” Yasha laughs uncomfortably. “I’m asking you to-to-” she takes a deep breath, scrambles for any focal point but his face. “Well- I don’t know if your parents would take you, is all.”

Understanding dawns on Molly with the speed of a lightning bolt, and he masks his expression before any of his reaction can spill out while he’s not ready. “Darling--why don’t we talk about that after you’ve performed. Tonight is about you, after all.”

Yasha takes a gulp of air and almost immediately turns to her vanity to check what kind of a job Molly’s done and touch up bits of her makeup herself--but not before Molly catches her expression, an odd mixture of disappointment and relief.

“Right. Right, you’re right. I should focus.” She starts reciting to herself under her breath, eyes boring holes in the mirror, and Molly lets himself fade back against her rug and take in whatever just happened.

He’s aware, okay, that most teenagers don’t just hand their paychecks over to their parents. Most teenagers buy skateboards and movie tickets and clothes and whatever else with what they earn, if their parents won’t do it for them. Most teenagers eat fast food and save for college and dream about trips to Paris. And it’s not as if he doesn’t do all that stuff too. It’s not as if he has _no_ money. It’s just that. Well. His parents aren’t exactly well off. Having three people working...it keeps the house warmer and the kitchen better stocked and more importantly it eases the careful gaze of his father from his every move.

He’s curated his image carefully enough that he’s still a little thrown by Yasha’s reactions; he forgets that she sees him sometimes. Sees past him, rather. He picks up his phone, scrolling blindly through notifications. She probably thinks--well, never mind what she probably thinks. They’re going to talk later. He’ll...explain himself better then.

Yasha drives them downtown and parks behind a church which Molly would never dream of stepping foot in but that he’s pretty sure legally can’t tow them. It’s still light out. It’s still warm, too. Warm enough to shrug his jacket off and toss it at Yasha when he’s not looking.

Yasha yelps. “Molly! You know I’m just going to keep this now…”

“Please do, it looks good on you.”

Yasha rolls her eyes but shrugs the jacket on anyway.

They walk in silence, basking in the last bit of light before the sun goes down. Molly reaches over to take Yasha’s hand and she tangles their fingers together without looking, like she knew he was reaching for her before he even started. It’s not crowded; everyone is in restaurants or grouped loosely on the sidewalk, moving easily apart as they pass. He closes his eyes to let her guide him for a bit, wondering if he can really give up the certainty of all of this.

Wildemount isn’t bad. It’s never been bad. It’s just...small, and a little behind the times, and a little off to the left of things that people notice when they look at a map. Molly’s the kind of person you’d expect to find in New York living out the starving artist dream; instead he is here, and everything is...just...okay. It’s just okay. He knows Yasha will be content to follow him wherever he goes, but he knows she would be equally as content to stay here, unknown, unremarkable, close to her eccentric but understanding father. Maybe he’s robbing her of some of that contentment with his own restlessness. Maybe she feels she has to be restless for him.

Yasha squeezes his hand, and he jerks out of his daydreaming.

“Here,” she says breathlessly. Molly squints in through the window of Helios and smiles.

“Right, so only two more hours we have to kill now.”

“Molly-”

“I’m teasing. Go sit down, get something to drink. I’m going to go get us some food.”

Yasha starts to take his jacket off, but Molly shakes his head. “Keep it; keep it. They’ve got AC in there.”

♡ ♡ ♡

Caleb takes a deep breath and pats down his pockets for the tenth time, checking that he hasn’t lost his phone and his wallet and his keys and his moleskin in the two minutes since the last time he checked. Maybe he should just carry a backpack around.

“Okay,” he says, turning to Nott, “where is your friend?”

Nott is scanning the crowd bunched in front of their school, occasionally hopping up on tiptoes to try and see over people’s heads. “There!” she says finally, and points to a girl with blindingly dart frog blue hair sitting ramrod straight on one of the benches closer to the doors. She takes off running, and Caleb is forced into an awkward jog to keep up.

The girl shoots up as Nott approaches and catches her in a tight hug. “Nott!” Her eyes pan automatically over to Caleb, and her whole face brightens. “Oh my goodness, is this your brother? Is this Caleb?” She lets go of Nott to stick out a hand towards Caleb. “Hi! I’m Jester.”

“Nice to meet you,” says Caleb, taking her hand gingerly.

“You too!” says Jester. Her incisors look unnaturally sharp; they lend sort of a fiercely, ominously happy energy to her otherwise childish face. The blue eyeshadow she has on looks less like makeup and more like something she had been playing with. It’s a sharp contrast to Nott, who is meticulous about everything that goes onto her body. Caleb tries, and mostly fails, to slot their personalities together in his head. Nott, who always seems quiet and vaguely grumpy, with this firecracker of a girl.

“Why don’t we go inside?” suggests Nott, who seems to have caught the look he’s giving Jester and is beginning to fidget.

Jester immediately turns her attention back on Nott. “Yes! I know it’s only been like twenty minutes but oh my god I feel like I’ve been sitting here for two hours, where were you guys?”

Nott half shrugs. “Lost track of time.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now, come on.” Jester grabs Nott’s hand and pulls her along, and Caleb is left once again to trail awkwardly behind.

It’s very weird being inside the school at night. He expects a teacher to pop out of a classroom and ask him what he’s doing here at any second, but all he sees are other students, leaned against lockers and checking their phones and sitting on the floor. He deliberately puts a few feet more of distance between himself, Jester and Nott, using the extra few seconds to look for anyone he knows. Unfortunately, all he sees is a few vaguely familiar faces he passes in the hallway occasionally.

By the time they reach the auditorium he thinks they’ve forgotten about him, but as he begins to inch along the wall to the punch table Nott darts out of the crowd and grabs his wrist.

“Thought we’d lost you,” she half yells over the music.

“No, I’m...still here,” he mumbles as she takes him back towards Jester, who standing at the edges of what appears to be the main dance floor, vaguely doing the macarena to a song that is most definitely not the macarena with her attention on a spot at the other side of the room.

“Have you talked to him yet?” Nott asks, and Caleb shoves his hands back in his pockets to avoid having to do anything with them.

“Not yet,” Jester screeches back. “Nott, maybe I should just leave him alone.”

“Don’t be silly, Jes, he’s here alone. And he looks bored. You’re the least boring person here.”

Jester smiles, but doesn’t halt her offbeat macarena.

“Sorry, who are we talking about?” Caleb asks, finally deciding that it is more awkward for him to not acknowledge them than it is to say something.

“Fjord,” says Nott, and sort of points with her chin in an effort to not be too obvious.

Caleb squints across the gym. There’s a tallish dark skinned guy leaning against the wall, wearing jeans and a hoodie for the school’s swim team--Wildemount Sea Serpents--and looking just as awkward as Caleb feels. He shifts around a little, trying to get a better look, and realizes that he recognizes the dude. He’s seen him in Helios, talking to Molly.

“Huh,” he mutters to himself, and slowly inches away from Nott and Jester, who fortunately are too engrossed in their own speculations to notice him go this time.

He pulls back, out through the auditorium doors, blinking in the unwelcome brightness of the hallway. He wanders a little further away, till the music doesn’t make his head pound anymore, and then he sinks against a locker and pulls out his phone.

_are you here?_

There’s an immediate series of dots, and then: _im not. cant talk for a bit. whats up? will rply ltr._

Caleb takes a deep breath, flipping his phone over in his hands. Molly had never _said_ he was going, not in so many words, but...well, Caleb had just sort of expected it. Molly seemed like he’d fit right in at this sort of thing, unlike Caleb. It was part of the reason he’d agreed to go. Now, though...he puts his head between his knees, still turning his phone over slowly. He just wants to go home. Jester seems nice, and Nott seems to want to include him, but it’s clear he doesn’t belong. Maybe he should just get an Uber, leave without telling them. Well--no, he can’t do that, Una had given him a look as they’d gotten out of the car--sort of a “take care of Nott” look, probably--he can’t leave.

Something knocks into his sneaker hard and he jerks up. Beauregard is standing in front of him, mouth twisted into a frown. He thinks it’s probably a safe bet to assume she’s just kicked him.

“Hey,” she says flatly. “What’s up, nerd?”

“Ahh...not much.” Caleb stills his hands over his phone with some effort.

“You okay?”

He raises an eyebrow at her. Her voice is still flat. Unfeeling.

 _“Ja,_ I guess so.”

“You sure?”

He shrugs, and she slams herself down on the tile in front of him unceremoniously. “Cool.” She pulls out her phone, swipes over the screen a couple times, and then groans. “Fuckin’ losers.” It doesn’t seem to be directed at him. She tucks her phone back into her combat boots and looks back at him. “So. You come here with anyone?”

“My…sister. And her friend.”

“Who’s your sister?”

“Nott Ermendrud.”

“Huh. Don’t think I know her. Who’s the friend?”

Caleb thinks for a moment. He remembers the name, but it doesn’t seem quite right. It must be a nickname. “Uh-Jester?”

“Jester? Lavorre?”

Caleb shrugs. “How many Jesters can there be in this school?”

“Was she way too enthusiastic--blue hair?”

“That’s the one.”

“Huh.” Beauregard doesn’t elaborate. “Huhh.”

“Do you know her?”

“Yup.”

“Care to share?”

“Nope.”

Caleb shrugs. “Are you alright, friend?”

Beauregard lets out a half laugh and fidgets with the spirals in her ears. “You know, you can just call me Beau.”

“Are you alright, Beau?”

“As alright as you are, I think. Do you mind if I stay out here with you? Think I might go crazy if I go back in.”

Caleb shakes his head. “Not at all.”

“Cool.” She scoots over to the locker next to him and pulls her beanie nearly over her eyes.

Caleb takes another couple deep breaths and unlocks his phone again.

♡ ♡ ♡

“Sure you don’t want to go check that there’s not still dancing happening?” Yasha asks, and in answer Molly leans against her shoulder and closes his eyes.

This is the first open mic night in months that he’s not had to work the event, and he’s forgotten how nice it is to be able to just sit and listen to her perform. Maybe he is being selfish. Maybe she has all she needs here. Maybe he should just...stay.

Yasha passes him the cherry limeade they’re sharing and he takes it without drinking. They're sitting on the curb outside of Helios, just...well, just sitting there. They’re not talking or working on anything or really cuddling overmuch, they’re just sort of existing. Normally Molly likes that about Yasha, that he doesn’t have to be talking to her to feel a connection, but his mind won’t shut up lately. He’s trying to focus on just being here, but he keeps thinking ahead.

“Molly?”

“Mhm?”

“Are you falling asleep?”

“Nope, I’m listening.”

“Hmm. Okay, so, Molly--”

Something’s nudging at the back of his mind. Something dark and cold and uncomfortable. There’s someone _screaming_ right in his ear, and it’s making his head ache and his chest ache and his throat burn, and--

\--and Yasha’s looking at him real weird.

“Let’s walk back to the car,” she says, and gingerly picks up the empty cherry limeade bottle from where it’s lying in the street. An already stickying red stain is splashed across the asphalt. Molly stares at it until Yasha puts a hand on his shoulder and tugs him away. She drops the bottle into the trash outside of Helios as gingerly as if it might burn her.

“Have I told you what happened yesterday during drama? That girl who keeps auditioning for leads--”

“Molly.”

“Yes, dear?”

Yasha doesn’t meet his eyes. “Please don’t. Not with me.”

“I--of course.”

She takes his jacket off and settles it back around his shoulders.

“Thanks.”

“Mhm.”

The walk back to the car is even less of a comfortable silence than sitting on the curb had been. Molly can practically feel disappointment radiating off her. They’re about halfway back when Yasha blurts, “Okay, I just--I don’t understand what’s so bad that you can’t tell _me.”_

“Yasha-”

“No, let me finish.”

Molly spreads his hands helplessly, but she’s still not looking at him.

“Look, I-I know I’m not one to talk. You don’t have to tell me anything, you never _have_ to, I’m just...worried about you. I feel like maybe you’re going to get hurt. I don’t know.”

Molly tries to sift through the hazy fog in his brain. “Like I’m going to get hurt?”

 _“Yes.”_ Yasha sounds pained. “And I would like to prevent that, if at all possible.”

“Well, I-”

“It just hurts that you don’t want to trust me with this,” says Yasha in a rush.

Molly feels like he’s been punched. The breath leaves his lungs in a soft _whoosh._

“I do trust you, darling, I just…” His eyes are starting to blur. “I trust you. Of course I trust you.”

Yasha doesn’t say anything, but Molly can hear her unasked questions lingering in the air. They’ve reached the car; he pulls the passenger door open and sits down as soon as she unlocks it. His whole chest feels tight and weird and _wrong_ and his vision’s going all tunnely. Maybe...maybe...what exactly is he doing for Yasha, anyway? How exactly is he helpful to her?

His phone buzzes, but he ignores it. God, maybe he should just actually blow up at her. Manufacture some anger. It wouldn’t exactly be hard. (If he doesn’t look at her. If he doesn’t think about it. Maybe he should get out of the car.)

Yasha gets in on the driver’s side; he hadn’t even realized she’d still been standing outside. She starts the car, then turns to him. “Seatbelt?”

He reaches over and straps himself in, eyes fixed on the dashboard. He can’t. He’s a fucking coward. Maybe that’s why he’ll never leave this town.

His phone buzzes again, and again, and again. He picks it up as Yasha pulls out of the parking lot. He doesn’t understand what’s happening to him. What _has_ been happening to him, apparently. Sometimes people talk about little pieces of the world that don’t seem to quite exist for him, like pieces fallen out of a puzzle. He wishes he could see the whole picture.

It’s Caleb, finally responding to his questioning text a good hour and a half late.

_it’s nothing, sorry, i overreacted_

_actually_

_i do have a question_

Molly tries to steady his breathing, tries to count his breaths. _shoot_

_would you like to come over tonight?_

Oh fuck. Fuck. Well. Fuck.

He hovers his finger over the textbox, trying to force his mind to think, getting nowhere, trying again, and coming up absolutely blank. He hesitates too long, because another message pops up:

_forgive me if i am too presumptuous. you can say no._

Molly glances over at Yasha, who is watching the road. They’re almost back at her dad’s house. He thinks about how much longer he can probably stretch this visit out, thinks about walking home from school to his own house if he chooses Caleb tonight. He thinks of Yasha’s bed and the sleepy smile on her face when they wake up to rain. He thinks of coming home smelling of her, wearing her shirts, and trying to wrap himself in that scent until it is long gone and it’s really only a memory in the stale dust of his own room.

 _i’m very sorry but i do have a prior commitment tonight,_ he types. _can i take a rain check?_

 _absolutely._ There’s a slight pause, then: _let me know._

 _will do._ Molly turns his phone off and tucks it into a pocket of his jacket. His head is pounding; he doesn’t want to look at any more artificial light right now. He needs to focus. And think, and plan, and...decide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise promise promise I will actually have Fjord in this fic. It's just...taking a while, lol. If you came here for Fjorjes I am SO sorry, it IS happening, it's just taking for fucking ever.


	6. touch the earth again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beau and Caleb do some trauma bonding, and Jester has an adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS I BET YOU THOUGHT YOU'D SEEN THE LAST OF ME. nope i'm just depressed and can't stick to a schedule. i am SO so sorry this took AGES. BUT. it's here now. hooray. have fun. enjoy. tw for panic attack

“This isn’t _fun_ anymore,” Beau explodes, and Tori looks up at her with all the interest of a tranquilized beagle, but the look on Nel’s face tells her that she’s made a mistake.

They’re sitting beneath the bleachers, sprawled out on the ratty blanket that’s been living in Tori’s backseat for all of time, as far as Beau knows. It’s too cold to be wearing nothing but a t shirt and shorts, but she is anyway. Both Tori and Nel are in hoodies; Tori’s doing that thing where she tucks her knees up inside the hoodie. Tori’s high, she’s pretty sure. Probably from before Beau got here. Nel...is not.

“Fun? You think this is supposed to be fun?”

An answer hovers on the the tip of Beau’s tongue, but she hesitates. Tori raises an eyebrow at her.

“This isn’t fucking _fun_ , Beau. It’s a _job_. I’m fucking working right now. If you don’t want to then you can go and be lazy on someone else’s blanket.”

Beau stands up suddenly, narrowly avoiding hitting her head on the bleachers. There’s a thousand different things she should be saying: to Nel, to Tori, to herself. Incredibly, the only thing that will surface coherently in her head is “but this is Tori’s blanket”...but perhaps they’re one and the same. After a moment, what she comes up with is “You both stopped acting like normal goddamn people when you didn’t make varsity,” and running off before either of them can respond.

It’s true--it’s true but it’s not. Being off varsity meant both of them collectively decided not to do JV, which sparked a cruel little seed of jealousy in Beau’s heart, that they even had the option...and then it meant haunting the games _with_ them instead of in support of them, and then it meant tracking down random kids that Beau would never be talking to normally just because they owed Tori money. It meant standing at the fence watching for teachers and sprinting back to the girls to tell them to keep it down. It meant that getting high with Tori wasn’t fun anymore; it was a blissful half hour reprieve from the endless cycle of loneliness and school and “hanging out” that just amounted to her doing whatever Tori and Nel wanted. It meant that even through the haze of warmth and smoke all she could think about was how soon it was ending.

It meant--it meant.

Beau stops running. She’s nearing the edge of school grounds, where the woods meet the grass, and she can vaguely hear yelling behind her. Probably it’s for whoever just scored and not at her, but it still makes her feel like there are eyes on the back of her neck.

She looks back, and there’s no one running after her. Just the volleyball pit and people milling around the bleachers like ants. She’s...fast. She has to be. But she’s still come a little further than she meant to. It feels like the end of something, like the end of something where she barely caught the beginning and got lost in the middle. Everything smells like leaves but she might as well be wading through snow.

There’s movement somewhere in the trees, and she freezes for a second. She sits down, watching. God, the last thing she needs is that damn dog from this summer following her and getting accused of stealing it or something.

She inches a little closer to the source of the noise, pulling herself behind a tree trunk as she does so.

...It’s not the dog. It’s a person. _And_ a cat.

“Hi…?” she ventures, and Caleb’s head jerks up from where it’s been tucked between his knees. His eyes are wide and blank, looking at her but not seeing her. There’s a very small kitten rubbing against his leg and purring with all the might in its fragile body; Caleb has one shaking hand rested atop its head.

Quite a few puzzle pieces hover in Beau’s head before clicking softly into place, and Beau scrambles out from behind her tree to approach Caleb and, when he doesn’t flinch away, to sit next to him. “Heyyy, dude, let’s just...let’s, uh…” Beau pats down her pockets, searching for something useful, but all she comes up with is an old gum wrapper. “Okay, okay, uhh. Okay. Hey.” She reaches out to pat this shoulder and he crumples a little, so she wraps her arms fully around him, trying to steady her own breathing. The kitten scrambles up her side to her shoulders, and she winces a little as its claws dig into her skin through her shirt. What the _hell_ is going on today?

“Who’s the little guy?” she asks, and when she receives no answer, she accepts that she might have to be the only one talking for a while.

“Okay, cool, cool, we can just sit here for a while. We are probably gonna have to leave when the game is over so like. If you can’t move by then I will carry you I am dead serious. This...this is fine though, it’s fine.”

Caleb shows no sign of even having heard her, which is fine with Beau. The kitten mewls.

“Alright, so...you’re here because you’re having a panic attack in the woods with a kitten, and I’m here because I think I just realized that my best friend doesn’t really care about me anymore and probably hasn’t for a while so I ran off like a fucking coward, and like, I don’t know your whole deal? But we can totally be miserable together, that’s an option.”

The kitten mews directly in her ear, shrill and needy, and she manages to crack a smile. “See, he agrees with me.”

She lets a few more moments pass in silence, waiting to see if Caleb will speak, and when he doesn’t she continues on, smushing herself a little more firmly against his shoulder. He’s holding himself tightly, uncomfortably, but he is very much leaned deliberately into her so she’s not letting go anytime soon.

“I dunno, man, but I think we might have more in common than we think we do? I mean, I know you’re super new here and you don’t know anybody and that’s gotta be pretty miserable. And I’ve been here my whole life but everyone hates me so like, same boat I guess? And I know I’m kind of stupid and you’re some crazy genius level of smart but I feel like we both get ignored for that anyway? Like, people are like, ‘oh you’re so smart you must think you’re better than me’ to you, I bet. And people always act like I think I’m too good for this school or something but it’s not fucking true, I just fail so hard at everything I try that I just...stopped trying.”

Beau sniffles, and the kitten presses sympathetically against her face. “Thanks, bud.”

Caleb stirs a bit, and gently extracts his arms from where she’s pressing them against his sides and briefly gives her an awkward side hug, before entirely disengaging. Beau lets her arms drop, waiting.

“You are not stupid, Beauregard. You have been ‘taught’ by people who are unwilling to truly teach you, who cannot see that you have a brilliant mind that needs to be engaged a little differently than is standard. That is their loss, but your pain. And I am sorry for that.”

“Th...thanks, I think.” Beau stares at him for a minute, caught somewhat off guard. Finally, she carefully extracts kitten claws from her shoulder, wincing as she does so, and holds the little guy out in front of her. “So, where’d you get a cat?”

♡ ♡ ♡

Jester slips out her window and sits on the roof, surprised at how easy it was. The gravely bits from the shingles stick to her palms, reddening her skin, and she brushes them off on her skirt. Technically, _technically_ she should be able to jump down without hurting herself, but her mother’s bedroom is too close to her window. So what ends up happening is that she scrambles down the trellis, wishing for a moment that she’d worn grippier shoes than her ballet flats, or that she’d taken them off and thrown them on the lawn so she could climb down barefoot, but--well, she’s already halfway down, nails digging uncomfortably into the vinyl siding as she clutches at the drain pipe, feeling blindly for her next foothold. She gets impatient about a foot from the ground and lets go, pushing herself out from the house and landing softly almost but not quite completely in her mother’s marigolds.

“ _Shit_ ,” she hisses, jumping up and trying to fluff the poor flowers back to their original state of springiness. They look--well, they look a little sad by the time she’s done--but hopefully mama will attribute that to the lack of rain. She dusts herself off, checking her reflection against the dark window of the living room. Her hair is a little, well, windswept, to be kind, but people think that’s cute, right? People totally think that’s cute. And her lipstick is just a teensy bit smudged, which is also cute. Especially where she’s going.

She looks...ruggedly adventurous. Ruggedly beautiful? One of the two. Either way, perfect.

Jester circles around the back of the house, keeping her head down and walking almost subconsciously on her toes until she’s nearly two blocks away from the house, then she lets herself breathe. There’s still a little light left over from sunset, but the primary source of light is the glittering array of streetlamps and fairy lights coming from downtown. She pauses for a moment to lean against a tree, grinning at every person looking at her curiously from across the street or up the sidewalk until they look away, unsettled. Nott’s texted her back, finally: _well don’t get killed or anything. you know i can’t come._

It’s juuuust a teeny bit disappointing. She’d known, of course, that Nott wasn’t going to sneak out of her parent’s house--or ask them if she could go, since Nott’s parents actually let her do things. But Nott was being really weird this month and so probably she just wanted to be alone in her room.

Jester perks up a little as she tucks her phone back into her skirt pocket and skips a little closer to the lights. It’s fine! It’ll be a solo adventure. She’s good at having adventures alone. She’s really good at that.

No one even bats an eye as she walks into the cafe--which, okay, she was maybe a teensy bit worried about--but it’s too loud and there’s too many people to notice that she’s juuust a tad on the young side to be out this late after dark alone. She takes a deep breath, searching around for a corner where she can sit without drawing too much attention to herself--and lucky, lucky her, someone’s set up some crates near the stage. Three crates, that only two people are sitting on. Jester scuttles over, pushing her way through the crowd with minimal resistance to claim the third crate as hers.

It’s hard to know exactly what she’s “supposed” to be doing--almost everyone seems to be here with friends, so she can’t exactly copy everyone else’s conversation without the risk of someone getting a little too inquisitive with her. She pulls out her phone, trying to look busy, but she has no one to text, and she keeps getting too distracted by the energy in the room and the constant arrival of new people--partially because it’s exciting, and partially because she’s irrationally scared of someone like her mom or her science teacher walking in and demanding what she’s doing there.

Eventually, though, conversations start to quiet, and the main lights dim. Jester scrambles to turn her phone off and tucks it into her skirt pocket. Two lights brighten slowly, somewhat illuminating the small stage, already mostly set, tangled so thoroughly in thick black extension cords and small amplifiers that Jester winces a little bit when one of the servers steps up to the mic. It screeches feedback for a second and he leans back, squinting.

“Okaaaay, welcome to Currant Events, we’ve got a pretty good set list for tonight, I’m sure you’ll all enjoy it. I’m sure most of you already know the drill but if you don’t: shut up when people are talking.” This draws a short laugh from the audience, and he pauses before continuing. “Clap when people finish, y’know, don’t be an asshole. Keep your phones quiet, don’t take pictures, and please do support our artists if you are at all able, they are all local and they are all broke. Alright, that’s it, everyone enjoy yourselves.”

There’s a few scattered claps as he leaves the stage, and he calls over his shoulder, “No no, the artists, do I look like I have any talent?” which draws another burst of laughter from the crowd. Jester leans forward with a happy sigh, reveling in the good feeling and closeness in the room. She feels part of something, despite being here alone. She feels grown up.

The acts are good--or, at the bare minimum, they’re always at least entertaining. Enough to keep Jester engaged until The Traveler comes on.

She’d discovered the group entirely by accident, daydreaming in her walk to her usual coffee shop and passing it entirely, drawn into this new place by the music drifting out even with the door closed. It was too enchanting to walk past--Jester lingered outside, soaking up each note until the music ended and she shook herself out of her reverie enough to go inside and buy a coffee. She was really supposed to be studying, but she ended up peering over her laptop and continually burning her tongue on her coffee watching the band pack up. And then Artie had walked over to _her,_ of all people.

He does the same tonight when the band finishes their set, hardly taking a second to help his bandmates haul their personal equipment offstage before dashing over to her crate and holding out a hand to help her up.

“Well, _hello_ , Jessie. You came.” He beams at her, and she beams back.

“Of course I came.”

He nudges his jacket subtly open--a thrifted, comically oversized beat up army jacket covered in patches--and Jester has to hide her giggles at the absurd number of spray paint he’s hiding in it. “Time for us to go, I think,” he says, and tugs her out of the coffee shop, giving a lazy two fingered salute to the owner.

♡ ♡ ♡

It is very, _very_ past Beau’s curfew, and while she feels bad about lying to Mrs. Widogast, right at this second she doesn’t much care about any of the other consequences. She and Caleb are lying on the floor of his bedroom, entertaining the kitten with a shoelace that Beau had pulled from her boot. It’s going to be a pain to lace up again, but that is another thing that’s fallen very low down on Beau’s list of concerns.

“Your mom’s pretty cool,” says Beau, attempting conversation with Caleb for about the tenth time. It’s not that sitting in silence with him is awkward or uncomfortable--in fact, he’s one of the few people that Beau would say she’s comfortable sitting in silence with--but his continual silence is beginning to concern her. He’d mostly pulled out of the panic attack he’d had in the woods behind the school, and when she was sitting with him waiting for his mom to come pick him up, he’d invited her home as though they’d been friends for years, but said hardly a word to her on the ride. She figured he was still getting over it, but it was hard not to be concerned. Were people usually this quiet after a panic attack? She’d never had one herself (at least, not yet) and in the once instance that she could remember Jester having one, she’d been a little shaky for a few minutes afterwards but bouncing off the walls hyper after an hour or so to calm down and an ice cream.

But Caleb still looks like he’s seen a ghost.

He shifts a little uncomfortably at her assertion. “She’s not my mother--at least, not yet. I don’t know.” He looks so wistful that Beau begins to wonder if there’s anything she can say that won’t make him even sadder.

“Well, I mean. Your foster mom’s pretty cool? What with the--” she gestures vaguely out the door and down the stairs, where Mrs. Widogast’s conversation with the local humane society is faintly audible. “That. That’s pretty cool. My dad, uh. My dad would never.”

Caleb smiles a little. “Ja, I suppose she is pretty cool.”

They’re checking to see if the kitten has an owner (which Beau personally heavily doubts.) If it doesn’t, she’s quite hopeful that Caleb will be allowed to keep it, although he doesn’t seem to want to let himself hope.

Beau passes the shoelace to Caleb and scoots over to the edge of his doorframe and pokes her head out, trying to listen in a little closer to his mom’s conversation.

“I think she’s asking about what food to buy,” she whispers to Caleb. “Why would she be buying food if she didn’t want to let you keep it?”

“It could be just for a few days while they search for an owner,” Caleb says glumly, but his face lights up when the little orange tabby foregoes its ten millionth pounce at the end of the string to press itself against Caleb’s cheek, purring. Beau turns away from the door, watching them both.

“Oh, man,” she says softly. “Well, he’s decided, if no one else has.”

Caleb looks up at her, a sort of fragile longing in his eyes. For a minute she thinks he’s going to say something about the kitten, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets out a long sigh and says, “I have not had a very good day, Beauregard.”

“Uhuh?”

“Mm. Ja.”

“Did, uh...did anything happen?”

Caleb inhales slowly. “A lot of things happened.”

“I...see.”

“I found something out that is...deeply troubling. And I’m not sure I can do anything about it.” He runs his hand over the kitten from nose to tailtip, slowly, meditatively, while he purrs like a freight train.

“Is it...maybe something I can help with?”

Caleb pauses in stroking the cat to press his knuckles to his eyes. “Maybe. Maybe, I don’t know. At any rate, it is...it is not my secret to tell. It is not even my secret to _know._ ”

Beau thinks that over for a moment, pulling the kitten into her lap when he immediately protests at Caleb’s sudden lack of attention towards him. She knows this kind of talk. She is, unfortunately, quite frequently the subject of this kind of talk.

(It’s not as though she deserves to be, though. Everyone else seems to have it worse. She can get by. She can survive. It’s...fine.)

(Really, it is.)

“I...think I get it,” she says slowly.

Silence takes over the room again, and Beau thinks she hears something about a vet appointment, and then the longer she listens, about microchips and vaccines and neutering and collars. She gives Caleb a small smile. “I’m pretty sure you have a cat now.”


End file.
